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m  TRIP  ABROAD 

CHARUE  CHAPLIN 


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MY    TRIP   ABROAD 

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I   SALUTE   EUROPE! 


MY  TRIP  ABROAD 


By 
CHARLIE  CHAPLIN 


aaiawxaaia 
eIxontel 

AlA^InrOTEIM 


Publishers 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS 

New    York   and  London 


Mt  Tup  Abroad 


Copyright,  1933,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  tlM  United  Statei  of  America 


ARTS 

CM 

/fZZ 

CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACE 

I.  I  Decide  to  Play  Hookey i 

II.  Off  to  Europe 13 

III.  Days  on  Shipboard 24 

IV.  Hello!  England 35 

V.  I  Arrive  in  London 46 

VI.  The  Haunts  of  My  Childhood 55 

VII.  A  Joke  and  Still  on  the  Go 63 

VIII.  A  Memorable  Night  in  London 70 

IX.  I  Meet  the  Immortals       80 

X.  I  Meet  Thomas  Burke  and  H.  G.  Wells 92 

XI.  Off  to  France 102 

XII.  My  Visit  to  Germany 113 

XIII.  I  Fly  from  Paris  to  London 124 

XIV.  Farewells  to  Paris  and  London 134 

XV.  Bon  Voyage 143 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  Salute  Europe!  .   - Frontispiece 

As  I  Look  When  I  Am  Serious Facing  p!  8 

I  Sign  a  $670,000  Contract "  14 

My  $3,000,000  Home  from  an  Airplane "  14 

Surrounded  by  Some  of  My  Admirers "  22 

I  Am  Welcomed  by  the  Mayor  of  Southampton,  England    .  "  40 

I  Arrive  at  the  Ritz  in  London "  50 

I  Love  Dogs       "  62 

Scenes   from  "The    Kid,"  in  Which    I    Star  with  Jackie 

Coogan "  86 

I  Meet  H.  G.  Wells "  94 

In  Paris  with  Sir  Philip  Sassoon  and  Georges  Carpentier  "  102 

I  Meet  Lady  Rock-Savage  and  Sir  Philip  Sassoon,  the  Poet  "  106 

I  Am  Met  in  Paris  by  Dudley  Field  Malone "  no 

I  Meet  the  Beautiful  Pola  Negri  in  Berlin "  116 

My  Favorite  Close-up "  126 

I  Travel  from  Paris  to  London  in  the  Latest  Style    .     .  "  138 

Scenes  from  "  Sunnyside,"  One  of  My  Favorite  Photo  Plays  .      "  148 


MY    TRIP   ABROAD 


MY    TRIP    ABROAD 


I   DECIDE   TO   PLAY   HOOKEY 

ASTEAK-AND-KIDNEY  pie,  influenza,  and  a  cablegram. 
There  is  the  triple  alliance  that  is  responsible  for  the 
whole  thing.  Though  there  might  have  been  a  bit  of  home- 
sickness and  a  desire  for  applause  mixed  up  in  the  cycle 
of  circumstances  that  started  me  off  to  Europe  for  a  vacation. 

For  seven  years  I  have  been  basking  in  California's  per- 
petual sunlight,  a  sunlight  artificially  enhanced  by  the 
studio  Cooper-Hewitts.  For  seven  years  I  have  been 
working  and  thinking  along  in  a  single  channel  and  I  wanted 
to  get  away.  Away  from  Hollywood,  the  cinema  colony, 
away  from  scenarios,  away  from  the  celluloid  smell  of  the 
studios,  away  from  contracts,  press  notices,  cutting  rooms, 
crowds,  bathing  beauties,  custard  pies,  big  shoes,  and  little 
mustaches.  I  was  in  the  atmosphere  of  achievement,  but 
an  achievement  which,  to  me,  was  rapidly  verging  on 
stagnation. 

I  wanted  an  emotional  holiday.  Perhaps  I  am  projecting 
at  the  start  a  difficult  condition  for  conception,  but  I  assure 
you  that  even  the  clown  has  his  rational  moments  and  I 
needed  a  few. 

The  triple  alliance  listed  above  came  about  rather  simul- 
taneously.    I  had  finished  the  picture  of  "The  Kid"  and 


2  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

"The  Idle  Class"  and  was  about  to  embark  on  another. 
The  company  had  been  engaged.  Script  and  settings  were 
ready.    We  had  worked  on  the  picture  one  day. 

I  was  feeling  very  tired,  weak,  and  depressed.  I  had 
just  recovered  from  an  attack  of  influenza.  I  was  in  one 
of  those  "what's  the  use"  moods.  I  wanted  something 
and  didn't  know  what  it  was. 

And  then  Montague  Glass  invited  me  to  dinner  at  his 
home  in  Pasadena.  There  were  many  other  invitations, 
but  this  one  carried  with  it  the  assurance  that  there  would 
be  a  steak-and-kidney  pie.  A  weakness  of  mine.  I  was  on 
hand  ahead  of  time.  The  pie  was  a  symphony.  So  was 
the  evening.  Monty  Glass,  his  charming  wife,  their  little 
daughter,  Lucius  Hitchcock,  the  illustrator,  and  his  wife — 
just  a  homey  little  family  party  devoid  of  red  lights  and 
jazz  orchestras.  It  awoke  within  me  a  chord  of  something 
reminiscent.     I  couldn't  quite  tell  what. 

After  the  final  onslaught  on  the  pie,  into  the  parlor  before 
an  open  fire.  Conversation,  not  studio  patois  nor  idle 
chatter.  An  exchange  of  ideas — ideas  founded  on  ideas. 
I  discovered  that  Montague  Glass  was  much  more  than  the 
author  of  Potash  and  Perlmutter.  He  thought.  He  was  an 
accomplished  musician. 

He  played  the  piano.  I  sang.  Not  as  an  exponent  of 
entertainment,  but  as  part  of  the  group  having  a  pleasant, 
homey  evening.  We  played  charades.  The  evening  was 
over  too  soon.  It  left  me  wishing.  Here  was  home  in  its 
true  sense.  Here  was  a  man  artistically  and  commercially 
successful  who  still  managed  to  lock  the  doors  and  put  out 
the  cat  at  night. 

I  drove  back  to  Los  Angeles.  I  was  restless.  There  was 
a  cablegram  waiting  for  me  from  London.  It  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  my  latest  picture,  "The  Kid,"  was 
about  to  make  its  appearance  in  London,  and,  as  it  had 
been  acclaimed  my  best,  this  was  the  time  for  me  to  make 
the  trip  back  to  my  native  land.  A  trip  that  I  had  been 
promising  myself  for  years. 


I  DECIDE  TO  PLAY  HOOKEY  3 

What  would  Europe  look  like  after  the  war? 

I  thought  it  over.  I  had  never  been  present  at  the  first 
showing  of  one  of  my  pictures.  Their  debut  to  me  had 
been  in  Los  AngelSs  projection  rooms.  I  had  been  missing 
something  vital  and  stimulating.  I  had  success,  but  it  was 
stored  away  somewhere.  I  had  never  opened  the  package 
and  tasted  it.  I  sort  of  wanted  to  be  patted  on  the  back. 
And  I  rather  relished  the  pats  coming  in  and  from  England. 
They  had  hinted  that  I  could,  so  I  wanted  to  turn  London 
upside  down.  Who  wouldn't  want  to  do  that?  And  all 
the  time  there  was  the  specter  of  nervous  breakdown  from 
overwork  threatening  and  the  actual  results  of  influenza 
apparent,  to  say  nothing  of  the  steak-and-kidney  pie. 

Sensation  of  the  pleasantest  sort  beckoned  me,  at  the 
same  time  rest  was  promised.  I  wanted  to  grab  it  while 
it  was  good.  Perhaps  "The  Kid"  might  be  my  last  picture. 
Maybe  there  would  never  be  another  chance  for  me  to  bask 
in  the  spotlight.  And  I  wanted  to  see  Europe — England, 
France,  Germany,  and  Russia.     Europe  was  new. 

It  was  too  much.  I  stopped  preparations  on  the  pic- 
ture we  were  taking.  Decided  to  leave  the  next  night 
for  Europe.  And  did  it  despite  the  protests  and  the 
impossibility  howlers.  Tickets  were  engaged.  We  packed. 
Everyone  was  shocked.  I  was  glad  of  it.  I  wanted  to 
shock  everyone. 

The  next  night  I  believe  that  most  of  Hollywood  was  at 
the  train  in  Los  Angeles  to  see  me  off.  And  so  were  their 
sisters  and  their  cousins  and  their  aunts.  Why  was  I 
going?  A  secret  mission,  I  told  them.  It  was  an  effective 
answer.  I  was  immediately  signed  to  do  pictures  in  Europe 
in  the  minds  of  most  of  them.  But  then  would  they  have 
believed  or  understood  if  I  had  told  them  I  wanted  an 
emotional  holiday?    I  don't  believe  so. 

There  was  the  usual  station  demonstration  at  the  train. 
The  crowd  rather  surprised  me.  It  was  but  a  foretaste.  I  do 
not  try  to  remember  the  shouted  messages  of  cheer  that 
were  flung  after  me.    They  were  of  the  usual  sort,  I  imagine. 


4  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

One,  however,  sticks.  My  brother  Syd  at  the  last  moment 
rushed  up  to  one  of  my  party. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  let  him  get  married!"  he  shouted. 

It  handed  the  crowd  a  laugh  and  me  a  scare. 

The  train  pulled  out  and  I  settled  down  to  three  days  of 
relaxation  and  train  routine.  I  ate  sometimes  in  the  dining 
car,  sometimes  in  our  drawing-room.  I  slept  atrociously. 
I  always  do.  I  hate  traveling.  The  faces  left  on  the  plat- 
form at  Los  Angeles  began  to  look  kinder  and  more  attrac- 
tive. They  did  not  seem  the  sort  to  drive  one  away.  But 
they  had,  or  maybe  it  was  optical  illusion  on  my  part, 
illusion  fostered  by  mental  unrest. 

For  two  thousand  miles  we  did  the  same  thing  over  many 
times,  then  repeated  it.  Perhaps  there  were  many  interesting 
people  on  the  train.  I  did  not  find  out.  The  percentage  of 
interesting  ones  on  trains  is  too  small  to  hazard.  Most  of 
the  time  we  played  solitaire.  You  can  play  it  many  times 
in  two  thousand  miles. 

Then  we  reached  Chicago.  I  like  Chicago.  I  have 
never  been  there  for  any  great  length  of  time,  but  my 
glimpses  of  it  have  disclosed  tremendous  activity.  Its 
record  speaks  achievement. 

But  to  me,  personally,  Chicago  suggested  Carl  Sandburg, 
whose  poetry  I  appreciate  highly  and  whom  I  had  met  in 
Los  Angeles.  I  must  see  dear  old  Carl  and  also  call  at  the 
office  of  the  Daily  News.  They  were  running  an  enormous 
scenario  contest.  I  am  one  of  the  judges,  and  it  happens 
that  Carl  Sandburg  is  on  the  same  paper. 

Our  party  went  to  the  Blackstone  Hotel,  where  a  suite 
had  been  placed  at  our  disposal.  The  hotel  management 
overwhelmed  us  with  courtesies. 

Then  came  the  reporters.  You  can't  describe  them  unless 
you  label  them  with  the  hackneyed  interrogation  point. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  why  are  you  going  to  Europe?" 

"Just  for  a  vacation." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  pictures  while  you  are  there?" 

"No." 


I  DECIDE  TO  PLAY  HOOKEY  5 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  old  mustaches?" 

"Throw  them  away." 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  old  canes?" 

"Throw  them  away." 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  old  shoes?" 

"  Throw  them  away." 

That  lad  did  well.  He  got  in  all  those  questions  before 
he  was  shouldered  aside  and  two  black  eyes  boring  through 
lenses  surrounded  by  tortoise-shell  frames  claimed  an 
inning.  I  restored  the  "prop  grin"  which  I  had  decided 
was  effective  for  interviews. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  have  you  your  cane  and  shoes  with  you?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  think  I'll  need  them." 

"Are  you  going  to  get  married  while  you  are  in  Europe?" 

"No." 

The  bespectacled  one  passed  with  the  tide.  As  he  passed 
I  let  the  grin  slip  away,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Hastily  I 
recalled  it  as  a  charming  young  lady  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  do  you  ever  expect  to  get  married?" 

"Yes." 

"To  whom?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  want  to  play  Hamlet?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  much  about 
it,  but  if  you  think  there  are  any  reasons  why — " 

But  she  was  gone.  Another  district  attorney  had  the 
floor. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  are  you  a  Bolshevik?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  are  you  going  to  Europe?" 

"For  a  holiday." 

"What  holiday?" 

"Pardon  me,  folks,  but  I  did  not  sleep  well  on  the  train 
and  I  must  go  to  bed." 

Like  a  football  player  picking  a  hole  in  the  line,  I  had 


6  ^         MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

seen  the  bedroom  door  open  and  a  friendly  hand  beckon. 
I  made  it.  Within  I  had  every  opportunity  to  anticipate 
the  terror  that  awaited  me  on  my  hoHday.  Not  the  crowds. 
I  love  them.  They  are  friendly  and  instantaneous.  But 
interviewers!  Then  we  went  to  the  News  office,  and  the 
trip  was  accomplished  without  casualty.  There  we  met 
photographers.  I  didn't  relish  facing  them.  I  hate  still 
pictures. 

But  it  had  to  be  done.  I  was  the  judge  in  the  contest 
and  they  must  have  pictures  of  the  judge. 

Now  I  had  always  pictured  a  judge  as  being  a  rather  dig- 
nified personage,  but  I  learned  about  judges  from  them. 
Their  idea  of  the  way  to  photograph  a  judge  was  to  have 
him  standing  on  his  head  or  with  one  leg  pointing  east. 
They  suggested  a  mustache,  a  derby  hat,  and  a  cane. 

It  was  inevitable. 

I  couldn't  get  away  from  Chaplin. 

And  I  did  so  want  a  holiday. 

But  I  met  Carl  Sandburg.  There  was  an  oasis  amid  the 
misery.  Good  old  Carl!  We  recalled  the  days  in  Los 
Angeles.    It  was  a  most  pleasant  chatfest. 

Back  to  the  hotel. 

Reporters.     More  reporters.     Lady  reporters. 

A  publicity  barrage. 

"Mr.  Chaplin—" 

But  I  escaped.  What  a  handy  bedroom !  There  must  be 
something  in  practice.  I  felt  that  I  negotiated  it  much 
better  on  the  second  attempt.  I  rather  wanted  to  try  out 
my  theory  to  see  if  I  had  become  an  adept  in  dodging  into 
the  bedroom.  I  would  try  it.  I  went  out  to  brave  the 
reporters.  But  they  were  gone.  And  when  I  ducked  back 
into  the  bedroom,  as  a  sort  of  rehearsal,  it  fell  fiat.  The  effect 
was  lost  without  the  cause. 

A  bit  of  food,  some  packing,  and  then  to  the  train  again. 
This  time  for  New  York.  Crowds  again.  I  liked  them. 
Cameras.  I  did  not  mind  them  this  time,  as  I  was  not 
asked  to  pose. 


I  DECIDE  TO  PLAY  HOOKEY  7 

Carl  was  there  to  see  me  off. 

I  must  do  or  say  something  extra  nice  to  him.  Something 
he  could  appreciate.  I  couldn't  think.  I  talked  inanities 
and  I  felt  that  he  knew  I  was  being  inane.  I  tried  to  think 
of  a  passage  of  his  poetry  to  recite.  I  couldn't.  Then  it 
came — the  inspiration. 

"Where  can  I  buy  your  book  of  poems,  Carl?"  I  almost 
blurted  it  out.    It  was  gone.    Too  late  to  be  recalled. 

"At  any  bookstore." 

His  reply  may  have  been  casual.    To  me  it  was  damning. 

Ye  gods,  what  a  silly  imbecile  I  was!  I  needed  rest.  My 
brain  was  gone.  I  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to  say  in  reprieve. 
Thank  God,  the  train  pulled  out  then.  I  hope  Carl  will 
understand  and  forgive  when  he  reads  this,  if  he  ever  does. 

A  wretched  sleep  en  train,  more  solitaire,  meals  at  schedule 
times,  and  then  we  hit  New  York. 

Crowds.  Reporters.  Photographers.  And  Douglas  Fair- 
banks. Good  old  Doug.  He  did  his  best,  but  Doug  has 
never  had  a  picture  yet  where  he  had  to  buck  news  pho- 
tographers. They  snapped  me  in  every  posture  anatomically 
possible.  Two  of  them  battled  with  my  carcass  in  argument 
over  my  facing  east  or  west. 

Neither  won.  But  I  lost.  My  body  couldn't  be  split. 
But  my  clothes  could — and  were. 

But  Doug  put  in  a  good  lick  and  got  me  into  an  auto- 
mobile.    Panting,  I  lay  back  against  the  cushions. 

To  the  Ritz  went  Doug  and  I. 

To  the  Ritz  went  the  crowd. 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so,  for  there  was  a  crowd  there  and 
it  looked  like  the  same  one.  I  almost  imagined  I  saw 
familiar  faces.  Certainly  I  saw  cameras.  But  this  time 
our  charge  was  most  successful.  With  a  guard  of  porters 
as  shock  troops,  we  negotiated  the  distance  between  the 
curb  and  the  lobby  without  the  loss  of  a  single  button. 

I  felt  rather  smart  and  relieved.  But,  as  usual,  I  was  too 
previous.  We  ascended  to  the  suite.  There  they  were. 
The  gentlemen  of  the  press.    And  one  lady  of  the  press. 


«  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  why  are  you  going  to  Europe?" 

"For  a  vacation." 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  old  mustaches?" 

"Throw  them  away." 

"Do  you  ever  expect  to  get  married?" 

"Yes." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Are  you  a  Bolshevik?" 

"I  am  an  artist.  I  am  interested  in  life.  Bolshevism  is 
a  new  phase  of  life.    I  must  be  interested  in  it." 

"Do  you  want  to  play  Hamlet?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know—" 

Again  Lady  Luck  fiew  to  my  side.  I  was  called  to  the 
telephone.  I  answered  the  one  in  my  bedroom,  and  closed 
the  door,  and  kept  it  closed.  The  Press  departed.  I  felt 
like  a  wrung  dishrag.  I  looked  into  the  mirror,  I  saw  a 
Cheshire  cat  grinning  back  at  me.  I  was  still  carrying  the 
"prop  "  grin  that  I  had  invented  for  interviews.  I  wondered 
if  it  would  be  easier  to  hold  it  all  the  time  rather  than  chase 
it  into  play  at  the  sight  of  reporters.  But  some  one  might 
accuse  me  of  imitating  Doug.  So  I  let  the  old  face  slip 
back  to  normalcy. 

Doug  came.  Mary  was  better.  She  was  with  him.  It 
was  good  to  see  her.  The  three  of  us  went  to  the  roof  to 
be  photographed.  We  were,  in  every  conceivable  pose 
until  some  one  suggested  that  Doug  hang  over  the  edge 
of  the  roof,  holding  Mary  in  one  hand  and  me  in  the  other. 
Pretty  little  thought.  But  that's  as  far  as  it  got.  I  beat 
Doug  to  the  refusal  by  a  hair. 

It's  great  to  have  friends  like  Doug  and  Mary.  They 
understood  me  perfectly.  They  knew  what  the  seven 
years'  grind  had  meant  to  my  nerves.  They  knew  just 
how  badly  I  needed  this  vacation,  how  I  needed  to  get 
away  from  studios  and  pictiures,  how  I  needed  to  get  away 
from  myself. 

Doug  had  thought  it  all  out  and  had  planned  that  while 


AS  I  LOOK  WHEN  I   AM   SERIOUS 


I  DECIDE  TO  PLAY  HOOKEY  9 

I  was  in  New  York  my  vacation  should  be  perfect.  He 
would  see  that  things  were  kept  pleasant  for  me. 

So  he  insisted  that  I  go  and  see  his  new  picture,  "The 
Three  Musketeers." 

I  was  nettled.  I  didn't  want  to  see  pictures.  But  I  was 
polite.    I  did  not  refuse,  though  I  did  try  to  evade. 

It  was  useless.  Very  seriously  he  wanted  me  to  see  the 
picture  and  give  my  honest  opinion.  He  wanted  my  criti- 
cism, my  suggestions. 

I  had  to  do  it.    I  always  do.    I  saw  the  picture  in  jerks. 

Reporters  were  there.     Their  attendance  was  no  secret. 

The  picture  over,  I  suggested  a  few  changes  and  several 
cuts  which  I  thought  would  improve  it. 

I  always  do. 

They  listened  politely  and  then  let  the  picture  ride  the 
way  it  was. 

They  always  do. 

Fortunately,  the  changes  I  suggested  were  not  made,  and 
the  picture  is  a  tremendous  success. 

But  I  still  have  status  as  a  critic.  I  am  invited  to  a 
showing  of  Mary's  picture,  "Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,"  and 
asked  for  suggestions.  They  know  that  I'll  criticize.  I 
always  do  and  they  are  afraid  of  me.  Though  when  they 
look  at  my  pictures  they  are  always  kind  and  sympathetic 
and  never  criticize. 

I  told  Mary  her  picture  was  too  long.  I  told  her  where 
to  cut  it.  Which,  of  course,  she  doesn't  do.  She  never 
does. 

She  and  Doug  listen  politely  and  the  picture  stands.  It 
always  does. 

Newspaper  men  are  at  the  hotel.  I  go  through  the  same 
barrage  of  questions.  My  "prop"  grin  does  duty  for 
fifteen  minutes.    I  escape. 

Douglas  phones  me.  He  wants  to  be  nice  to  me.  I  am 
on  my  vacation  and  he  wants  it  to  be  a  very  pleasant  one. 
So  he  invites  me  to  see  "The  Three  Musketeers"  again. 
This  time  ^t  its  first  showing  before  the  public, 


10  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Before  the  opening  of  Doug's  picture  we  were  to  have 
dinner  together,  Mary  and  Doug,  Mrs.  Conde  Nast  and  I. 

I  feel  very  embarrassed  at  meeting  Mrs.  Nast  again. 
Somewhere  there  lurks  in  my  memory  a  broken  dinner 
engagement.  It  worried  me,  as  I  had  not  even  written. 
It  was  so  foolish  not  to  write.  I  would  be  met  probably 
with  an  "  all-is-f orgiven  "  look. 

I  decide  that  my  best  defense  is  to  act  vague  and  not 
speak  of  it.    I  do  so  and  get  away  with  it. 

And  she  has  the  good  taste  not  to  mention  it,  so  a  pleasant 
time  is  had  by  all. 

We  went  to  the  theater  in  Mrs.  Nast's  beautiful  limou- 
sine. The  crowds  were  gathered  for  several  blocks  on  every 
side  of  the  theater. 

I  felt  proud  that  I  was  in  the  movies.  Though  on  this 
night,  with  Douglas  and  Mary,  I  felt  that  I  was  trailing  in 
their  glory.     It  was  their  night. 

There  are  cheers — for  Mary,  for  Doug,  for  me.  Again  I 
feel  proud  that  I  am  in  the  movies.  I  try  to  look  dignified. 
I  coax  up  the  "prop"  smile  and  put  into  it  real  pleasure. 
It  is  a  real  smile.    It  feels  good  and  natural. 

We  get  out  of  the  car  and  the  crowds  swarm.  Most  of 
the  "all- American"  selections  are  there.  Doug  takes  Mary 
under  his  wing  and  plows  through  as  though  he  were  doing 
a  scene  and  the  crowd  were  extras. 

I  took  my  cue  from  him.  I  took  Mrs.  Nast's  arm.  At 
least  I  tried  to  take  it,  but  she  seemed  to  sort  of  drift  away 
from  me  down  toward  Eighth  Avenue,  while  I,  for  no 
apparent  reason,  backed  toward  Broadway.  The  tide 
changed.  I  was  swept  back  toward  the  entrance  of  the 
theater.  I  was  not  feeling  so  proud  as  I  had  been.  I  was 
still  smiling  at  the  dear  public,  but  it  had  gone  back  to  the 
"prop"  smile. 

I  realized  this  and  tried  to  put  real  pleasure  into  the 
smile  again.  As  the  grin  broadened  it  opened  new  space  in 
the  jam  and  a  policeman  parked  his  fist  in  it. 

I  4oii't  like  the  t^ste  of  policemen's  lists,    I  told  him  so 


I  DECIDE  TO  PLAY  HOOKEY  ii 

in  a  gargle.  He  glared  at  me  and  pushed  me  for  a  "first 
down."  My  hat  flew  toward  the  heavens.  It  has  never 
returned  to  me. 

I  felt  a  draught.  I  heard  machinery.  I  looked  down. 
A  woman  with  a  pair  of  scissors  was  snipping  a  piece  from 
the  seat  of  my  trousers.  Another  grabbed  my  tie  and 
almost  put  an  end  to  my  suffering  through  strangulation. 
My  collar  was  next.    But  they  only  got  half  of  that. 

My  shirt  was  pulled  out.  The  buttons  torn  from  my  vest. 
My  feet  trampled  on.  My  face  scratched.  But  I  still 
retained  the  smile,  "prop"  one  though  it  was.  Whenever 
I  could  think  of  it  I  tried  to  raise  it  above  the  level  of  a 
"prop"  smile  and  was  always  rewarded  with  a  policeman's 
fist.  I  kept  insisting  that  I  was  Charlie  Chaplin  and  that 
I  belonged  inside.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I  see 
' '  The  Three  Musketeers. ' ' 

Insistence  won.  As  though  on  a  prearranged  signal  I 
felt  myself  lifted  from  my  feet,  my  body  inverted  until  my 
head  pointed  toward  the  center  of  the  lobby  and  my  feet 
pointed  toward  an  electric  sign  advertising  the  Ziegfeld 
Roof.  Then  there  was  a  surge,  and  I  moved  forward  right 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  through  the  lobby. 

As  I  went  through  the  door,  not  knowing  into  what,  I 
saw  a  friend. 

With  the  "prop"  smile  still  waving,  I  flung  back,  "See 
you  later,"  and,  head  first,  I  entered  the  theater  and  came 
to  in  a  heap  at  the  foot  of  a  bediamonded  dowager.  I 
looked  up,  still  carrying  the  "prop"  smile,  but  my  effort 
fell  flat.    There  was  no  applause  in  the  look  she  gave  me. 

Crestfallen,  I  gathered  myself  together,  and  with  what 
dignity  there  was  left  I  strode  to  the  box  that  had  been 
set  aside  for  our  party.  There  was  Mary,  as  sweet  and 
beautiful  as  ever;  Mrs.  Nast,  calm  and  composed;  Doug 
serene  and  dapper. 

"Late  again,"  they  looked. 

And  Mary,  steely  polite,  enumerated  my  sartorial  short- 
comings.   But  I  knew  one  of  them,  at  le^st  better  than  she 


12  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

did,  and  I  hastened  to  the  men's  room  for  repairs.  Soap 
and  water  and  a  brush  did  wonders,  but  I  could  find  no 
trousers,  collar,  or  tie,  and  I  returned  clean  but  ragged  to  the 
box,  where  disapproval  was  being  registered  unanimously. 

I  tried  to  make  the  "prop"  grin  more  radiant,  even 
though  I  was  most  tired  after  my  journey,  but  it  didn't 
go  with  Doug  and  Mary. 

But  I  refused  to  let  them  spoil  my  pleasure  and  I  saw 
"The  Three  Musketeers." 

It  was  a  thrilling  success  for  Doug.  I  felt  good  for  him, 
though  I  was  a  bit  envious.  I  wondered  if  the  showing  of 
"The  Kid"  could  have  meant  as  big  a  night  for  me. 

'Twas  quite  a  night,  this  opening  of  the  Fairbanks  mas- 
terpiece, and,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  I  think  I 
behaved  admirably.  Somehow,  though,  I  think  there  is  a 
vote  of  three  to  one  against  me. 


II 

OFF   TO    EUROPE 

NEXT  morning  there  was  work  to  do.  My  lawyer, 
Nathan  Burkan,  had  to  be  seen.  There  were  contracts 
and  other  things.  Almost  as  much  a  nuisance  as  interviews. 
But  I  dare  say  they  are  necessary. 

Poor  old  Nath!  I  love  him,  but  am  afraid  of  him.  His 
pockets  always  bulge  contracts.  We  could  be  such  good 
friends  if  he  were  not  a  lawyer.  And  I  am  sure  that  there 
must  be  times  when  he  is  delightful  company.  I  might 
fire  him  and  then  get  acquainted. 

A  very  dull  day  with  him.  Interrupted  by  phones,  invi- 
tations, parties,  theater  tickets  sent  to  me,  people  asking 
for  jobs.  Hundreds  of  letters  camouflaged  with  good  wishes 
and  invariably  asking  favors.    But  I  like  them. 

Calls  from  many  old  friends  who  depress  me  and  many 
new  ones  who  thrill  me.  I  wanted  some  buckwheat  cakes. 
I  had  to  go  three  blocks  to  a  Childs'  restaurant  to  get  them. 
Why  doesn't  a  hotel  like  the  Ritz  get  a  chef  who  knows 
how  to  make  buckwheat  cakes?  Can't  they  lure  one  away 
from  the  spotlight  of  the  white  front?  Still,  I  guess  there 
is  a  thrill  in  tossing  the  batter  in  the  air  and  catching  it 
while  hungry-looking  eyes  and  flattened  noses  are  pressed 
against  the  window. 

That  night  I  went  to  see  "Liliom,"  the  best  play  in  New 
York  at  the  time  and  one  which  in  moments  rises  to  true 
greatness.  It  impressed  me  tremendously  and  made  me 
dissatisfied  with  myself.    I  don't  like  being  without  work. 


14  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

I  want  to  go  on  the  stage.  Wonder  if  I  could  play  that 
part? 

I  went  back  behind  the  scenes  and  met  young  Skildkraut. 
I  was  amazed  at  his  beauty  and  youth.  Truly  an  artist, 
sincere  and  simple.  And  Eva  Le  Gallienne,  a  charm  that  is 
distinctive.  I  recall  no  one  else  on  the  stage  just  like  her. 
We  renewed  our  acquaintance  made  in  Los  Angeles. 

I  am  told  that  she  lives  whatever  part  She  is  playing,  on 
and  off  the  stage.  This  is  most  interesting,  but  I  question 
its  advisability — for  artistic  reasons.  But  she  is  a  charming 
artist,  and  that  is  the  answer,  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  want  the 
relaxation  of  being  myself  after  the  day's  work  is  done.  I 
am  after  a  good  dose  of  that  relaxation  now.  It  is  not 
coming  so  easily.  My  little  mustache  and  big  shoes  are 
glaring  trade-marks. 

The  next  morning  provided  a  delightful  treat.  Break- 
fast for  me,  luncheon  for  the  others,  at  the  Coffee  House 
Club,  a  most  interesting  little  place  where  artists  and 
artisans  belong — writers,  actors,  musicians,  artists,  sculp- 
tors, painters — all  of  them  interesting  people.  I  go  there 
often  whenever  I  am  in  New  York.  It  was  a  brilliant  party. 
Heywood  Broun,  Frank  Crowninshield,  Harrison  Rhodes, 
Edward  Knobloch,  Conde  Nast,  Alexander  Woolcott — but 
I  can't  remember  all  the  names.  I  wish  all  meals  were  as 
pleasant. 

I  received  an  invitation  to  dine  with  Ambassador  Gerard 
and  then  go  for  a  ride  in  the  country.  The  motor  broke 
down,  as  they  usually  do  on  such  occasions,  and  I  had  to 
phone  and  disappoint.  I  was  sorry,  because  I  was  to  meet 
some  brilliant  people. 

I  had  luncheon  next  day  with  Max  Eastman,  one  of  my 
best  friends.  He  is  a  radical  and  a  poet  and  editor  of  The 
Liberator,  a  charming  and  sympathetic  fellow  who  thinks. 
All  of  his  doctrines  I  do  not  'subscribe  to,  but  that  makes  no 
difference  in  our  friendship.  We  get  together,  argue  a  bit, 
and  then  agree  to  disagree  and  let  it  go  at  that  and  remain 
friends. 


I  SIGN  A  $670,000  CONTRACT 


4MY  $3,000,000  HOME  FROM  AN  AIRPLANE 


OFF  TO  EUROPE  15 

He  told  me  of  a  party  that  he  was  giving  at  his  home 
that  evening  and  I  hastened  to  accept  his  invitation 
to  attend.  His  home  is  always  interesting.  His  friends 
likewise. 

What  a  night  it  was  for  me!  I  got  out  of  myself.  My 
emotions  went  the  gamut  of  tears  to  laughter  without 
artificiality.  It  was  what  I  had  left  Los  Angeles  for,  and 
that  night  Charlie  Chaplin  seemed  very  far  away,  and  I 
felt  or  wanted  to  feel  myself  just  a  simple  soul  among  other 
souls. 

I  was  introduced  to  George,  an  ex-I.  W.  W.  secretary.  I 
suppose  he  has  a  last  name,  but  I  didn't  know  it  and  it 
didn't  seem  to  matter  when  one  met  George.  Here  was  a 
real  personality.  He  had  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  I  have 
never  seen  before,  a  light  that  must  have  shone  from  his 
soul.  He  had  the  look  of  one  who  believes  he  is  right 
and  has  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  It  is  a  scarce 
article. 

I  learned  that  he  had  been  sentenced  by  Judge  Landis 
to  serve  twenty  years  in  the  penitentiary,  that  he  had 
served  two  years  and  was  out  because  of  ill  health.  I  did 
not  learn  the  offense.    It  did  not  seem  to  matter. 

A  dreamer  and  a  poet,  he  became  wistfully  gay  on  this 
hectic  night  among  kindred  spirits.  In  a  mixed  crowd  of 
intellectuals  he  stood  out. 

He  was  going  back  to  serve  eighteen  years  in  the  peni- 
tentiary and  was  remaining  jovial.  What  an  ordeal!  But 
ordeal  signifies  what  it  would  have  been  for  me.  I  don't 
believe  it  bothered  him.  I  hardly  believe  he  was  there. 
He  was  somewhere  else  in  the  place  from  which  that  look 
in  his  eyes  emanated.    A  man  whose  ideas  are  ideals. 

I  pass  no  opinion,  but  with  such  charm  one  must 
sympathize. 

It  was  an  amusing  evening.  We  played  charades  and  I 
watched  George  act.  It  was  all  sorts  of  fun.  We  danced 
a  bit. 

Then  George  came  in  imitating  Woodrow.    It  was  scream- 


i6  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

ingly  funny,  and  he  threw  himself  into  the  character,  or 
caricature,  making  Wilson  seem  absurdly  ridiculous.  We 
were  convulsed  with  laughter. 

But  all  the  time  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  he  must  go 
back  to  the  penitentiary  for  eighteen  years. 

What  a  party ! 

It  didn't  break  up  until  two  in  the  morning,  though 
clock  or  calendar  didn't  get  a  thought  from  me. 

We  all  played,  danced,  and  acted.  No  one  asked  me  tc 
walk  funny,  no  one  asked  me  to  twirl  a  cane.  If  I  wanted 
to  do  a  tragic  bit,  I  did,  and  so  did  everyone  else.  You 
were  a  creature  of  the  present,  not  a  production  of  the  past, 
not  a  promise  of  the  future.  You  were  accepted  as  is, 
sans  "Who's  Who"  labels  and  income-tax  records. 

George  asks  me  about  my  trip,  but  he  does  not  interview. 
He  gives  me  letters  to  George  Bernard  Shaw  and  others. 
They   are   great  friends. 

In  my  puny  way,  sounding  hollow  and  unconvincing,  I  try 
to  tell  George  how  foolish  he  is.  He  tries  to  explain  that 
he  can't  help  it.  Like  all  trail  blazers,  he  is  a  martyr. 
He  does  not  rant.  He  blames  no  one.  He  does  not  rail 
at  fate. 

If  he  believes  himself  persecuted,  his  belief  is  unspoken. 
He  is  almost  Christlike  as  he  explains  to  me.  His  viewpoint 
is  beautiful,  kind,  and  tender. 

I  can't  imagine  what  he  has  done  to  be  sentenced  to 
twenty  years.  My  thought  must  speak.  He  believes  he  is 
spoiling  my  party  through  making  me  serious.  He  doesn't 
want  that. 

He  stops  talking  about  himself.  Suddenly  he  runs,  grabs 
a  woman's  hat,  and  says,  "Look,  Charlie,  I'm  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt!" and  goes  into  a  most  ridiculous  travesty. 

I  laugh.    Everyone  laughs.    George  laughs. 

And  he  is  going  back  to  the  penitentiary  to  spend  eigh- 
teen of  the  most  wonderful  years  of  his  life ! 

I  can't  stand  it.  I  go  out  in  the  garden  and  gaze  up  at 
the  stars.     It  is  a  wonderful  night  and  a  glorious  moon  is 


OFF  TO  EUROPE  17 


shining  down.  I  wish  there  was  something  I  could  do  for 
George.     I  wonder  if  he  is  right  or  wrong. 

Before  long  George  joins  me.  He  is  sad  and  reflective, 
with  a  sadness  of  beauty,  not  of  regret.  He  looks  at  the 
moon,  the  stars.  He  confides,  how  stupid  is  the  party,  any 
party,  compared  with  the  loveliness  of  the  night.  The 
silence  that  is  a  universal  gift — how  few  of  us  enjoy  it. 
Perhaps  because  it  cannot  be  bought.  Rich  men  buy  noise. 
Souls  irevel  in  nature's  silences.  They  cannot  be  denied 
those  who  seek  them. 

We  talk  of  George's  future.  Not  of  his  past  nor  of  his 
offense.  Can't  he  escape?  I  try  to  make  him  think  logically 
toward  regaining  his  freedom.  I  want  to  pledge  my  help. 
He  doesn't  understand,  or  pretends  not  to.  He  has  not  lost 
anything.     Bars  cannot  imprison  his  spirit. 

I  beg  him  to  give  himself  and  his  life  a  better  chance. 

He  smiles. 

"Don't  bother  about  me,  Charlie.  You  have  your  work. 
Go  on  making  the  world  laugh.  Yours  is  a  great  task  and 
a  splendid  one.     Don't  bother  about  me." 

We  are  silent.  I  am  choked  up.  I  feel  a  sort  of  pent-up 
helplessness.     I  want  relief.     It  comes. 

The  tears  roll  down  my  cheeks  and  George  embraces  me. 

There  are  tears  in  both  our  eyes. 

"Good-by,  Charlie." 

"Good-by,  George." 

What  a  party.  Its  noise  disgusts  me  now.  I  call  my  car. 
I  go  back  to  the  Ritz. 

George  goes  back  to  the  "pen." 

Chuck  Reisner,  who  played  the  big  bully  in  "The  Kid," 
called  the  next  day.  He  wants  to  go  to  Europe.  Why? 
He  doesn't  know.  He  is  emotional  and  sensational.  He  is 
a  pugilist  and  a  song  writer.  A  civil  soldier  of  fortune.  He 
doesn't  like  New  York  and  thinks  he  wants  to  get  back  to 
California  at  once. 

We  have  breakfast  together.  It  is  a  delightful  meal 
because  it  is  so  different  from  my  usual  lonely  breakfast. 


i8  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Chuck  goes  on  at  a  great  rate  and  succeeds  in  working  up 
his  own  emotions  until  there  are  tears  in  his  eyes. 

I  promise  him  all  sorts  of  things  to  get  rid  of  him.  He 
knows  it  and  tells  me  so.  We  understand  each  other  very 
well.  I  promise  him  an  engagement.  Tell  him  he  can 
always  get  a  job  with  me  if  he  doesn't  want  too  much  money. 

He  is  indignant  at  some  press  notices  that  have  appeared 
about  me  and  wants  to  go  down  to  newspaper  row  and  kill 
a  few  reporters.  He  always  has  a  chip  on  his  shoulders 
wherever  I  am  concerned.  He  fathers,  mothers  me  in  his 
rough  way. 

We  talk  about  everybody's  ingratitude  for  what  he  and 
I  have  done  for  people.  We  have  a  mutual-admiration 
convention.  Why  aren't  we  appreciated  more?  We  are 
both  sour  on  the  world  and  its  hypocrisies.  It's  a  great 
little  game  panning  the  world  so  long  as  you  don't  let  your 
sessions  get  too  long  or  too  serious.  I  chased  Chuck  before 
that  time. 

I  had  a  luncheon  engagement  at  the  Coffee  House  Club 
with  Frank  Crowninshield,  and  we  talked  over  the  arrange- 
ments of  a  dinner  which  I  am  giving  to  a  few  intimate  friends. 
Frank  is  my  social  mentor,  though  I  care  little  about  society 
in  the  general  acceptance  of  the  term.  We  arranged  for  a 
table  at  the  Elysee  Cafe  and  it  was  to  be  a  mixed  party. 

Among  the  guests  were  Max  Eastman,  Harrison  Rhodes, 
Edward  Knobloch,  Mme.  Maeterlinck,  Alexander  Woolcott, 
Douglas  Fairbanks  and  Mary,  Heywood  Broun,  Rita 
Weiman,  and  Neysa  McMein,  a  most  charming  girl  for  whom 
I  am  posing. 

Frank  Harris  and  Waldo  Frank  were  invited,  but  were 
unable  to  attend.  Perhaps  there  were  others,  but  I  can't 
remember,  and  I  am  sure  they  will  forgive  me  if  I  have 
neglected  to  mention  them.  I  am  always  confused  about 
parties  and  arrangements. 

The  last  minute  sets  me  wild.  I  am  a  very  bad  organizer. 
I  am  always  leaving  everything  until  the  last  minute,  and 
as  a  rule  no  one  shows  up. 


OFF  TO  EUROPE  19 

This  was  the  exception.  For  on  this  occasion  everybody 
did  turn  up.  And  it  started  off  Hke  most  parties;  every- 
body was  stiff  and  formal ;  I  felt  a  terrible  failure  as  a 
host.  But  in  spite  of  Mr.  Volstead  there  was  a  bit  of  "golden 
water"  to  be  had,  and  it  saved  the  day.  What  a  blessing 
at  times! 

I  had  been  worried  since  sending  the  invitations.  I 
wondered  how  Max  Eastman  would  mix  with  the  others, 
but  I  was  soon  put  at  my  ease,  because  Max  is  clever  and 
is  just  as  desirous  of  having  a  good  time  as  anyone,  in  spite 
of  intellectual  differences.  That  night  he  seemed  the 
necessary  ingredient  to  make  the  party. 

The  fizz  water  must  have  something  of  the  sort  of  thing 
that  old  Ponce  de  Leon  sought.  Certainly  it  made  us  feel 
very  young.  Back  to  children  we  leaped  for  the  night. 
There  were  games,  music,  dancing.  And  no  wall  flowers. 
Everyone  participated. 

We  began  playing  charades,  and  Doug  and  Mary  showed 
us  some  clever  acting.  They  both  got  on  top  of  a  table 
and  made  believe  he  was  the  conductor  of  a  trolley  car  and 
she  was  a  passenger.  After  an  orgy  of  calling  out  stations 
en  route  the  conductor  came  along  to  the  passenger  and 
collected  her  fare.  Then  they  both  began  dancing  around 
the  floor,  explaining  that  they  were  a  couple  of  fairies 
dancing  along  the  side  of  a  brook,  picking  flowers.  Soon 
Mary  fell  in  and  Douglas  plunged  in  after  her  and  pulled 
her  up  on  the  banks  of  the  brook. 

That  was  their  problem,  and,  guess  though  we  would,  we 
could  not  solve  it.  They  gave  the  answer  finally.  It  was 
"Fairbanks." 

Then  we  sang,  and  in  Italian — at  least  it  passed  for  that. 
I  acted  with  Mme.  Maeterlinck.  We  played  a  burlesque 
on  the  great  dying  scene  of  "Camille."  But  we  gave  it  a 
touch  that  Dumas  overlooked. 

When  she  coughed,  I  got  the  disease  immediately,  and  was 
soon  taken  with  convulsions  and  died  instead  of  Camille. 

We  sang  some  more,  we  danced,  we  got  up  and  made 


20  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

impromptu  speeches  on  any  given  subject.  None  were 
about  the  party,  but  on  subjects  like  "poHtical  economy," 
"the  fur  trade,"  "feminism." 

Each  one  would  try  to  talk  intelligently  and  seriously 
on  a  given  subject  for  one  minute.  My  subject  was  the 
"fur  trade." 

I  prefaced  my  talk  by  references  to  cats,  rabbits,  etc., 
and  finished  up  by  diagnosing  the  political  situation  in 
Russia. 

For  me  the  party  was  a  great  success.  I  succeeded  in 
forgetting  myself  for  a  while.  I  hope  the  rest  of  them 
managed  to  do  the  same  thing.  From  the  cafe  the  party 
went  over  to  a  little  girl's  house — she  was  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Woolcott — and  again  we  burst  forth  in  music  and  dancing. 
We  made  a  complete  evening  of  it  and  I  went  to  bed  tired 
and  exhausted  about  five  in  the  morning. 

I  want  a  long  sleep,  but  am  awakened  by  my  lawyer  at 
nine.  He  has  packages  of  legal  documents  and  papers  for 
me  to  sign,  my  orders  about  certain  personal  things  of 
great  importance.  I  have  a  splitting  headache.  My  boat 
is  sailing  at  noon,  and  altogether,  with  a  lawyer  for  a  com- 
panion, it  is  a  hideous  day. 

All  through  the  morning  the  telephone  bell  is  ringing. 
Reporters.    I  listen  several  times,  but  it  never  varies. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  why  are  you  going  to  Europe?" 

"To  get  rid  of  interviews,"  I  finally  shout,  and  hang  up 
the  phone.  Somehow,  with  invaluable  assistance,  we  get 
away  from  the  hotel  and  are  on  our  way  to  the  dock.  My 
lawyer  meets  me  there.  He  has  come  to  see  me  off.  I 
tremble,  though,  for  fear  he  has  more  business  with  me. 

I  am  criticized  by  my  lawyer  for  talking  so  sharply  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  That's  just  it.  He  always  sees 
me  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  That's  what  makes  me 
short. 

But  it  is  too  big  a  moment.  Something  is  stirring  within 
me.  I  am  anxious  and  reluctant  about  leaving.  My  emo- 
tions are  all  mixed. 


OFF  TO  EUROPE  21 

It  is  a  beautiful  morning.  New  York  looks  much  finer 
and  nicer  because  I  am  leaving  it.  I  am  terribly  troubled 
about  passports  and  the  usual  procedure  about  declaring 
income  tax,  but  my  lawyer  reassures  me  that  he  has  fixed 
everything  O.  K.  and  that  my  name  will  work  a  lot  of  influ- 
ence with  the  American  officials;  but  I  am  very  dubious 
about  it  when  I  am  met  by  the  American  officials  at  the 
port. 

I  am  terrified  by  American  officials.  I  am  extra  nice  to 
the  officials,  and  to  my  amazement  they  are  extra  nice  to 
me.    Everything  passes  off  very  easily. 

As  usual,  my  lawyer  was  right.  He  had  fixed  everything. 
He  is  a  good  lawyer. 

We  could  be  such  intimate  friends  if  he  wasn't. 

But  I  am  too  thrilled  to  give  much  time  to  pitying  lawyers. 

I  am  going  to  Europe. 

The  crowds,  reporters,  photographers,  all  sorts  of  traffic, 
pushing,  shoving,  opening  passports,  vises  O.  K.'d,  stamped, 
in  perfect,  almost  clocklike  precision,  I  am  shoved  aboard. 

The  newspaper  battery  pictorial  and  reportorial.  There 
is  no  original  note. 

"Mr,  Chaplin,  why  are  you  going  to  Europe?" 

I  feel  that  in  this  last  moment  I  should  be  a  bit  more 
tolerant  and  pleasant,  no  matter  how  difficult.  I  bring 
forth  the  "prop"  smile  again. 

"For  a  vacation,"  I  answer. 

Then  they  go  through  the  standard  interview  form  and  I 
try  to  be  obliging. 

Mrs.  John  Carpenter  is  on  the  boat — was  also  invited  to 
my  party,  but  couldn't  attend — with  her  charming  daughter, 
who  has  the  face  of  an  angel.  Also  Mr.  Edward  Knobloch. 
We  are  all  photographed.  Doug  and  Mary  are  there.  Lots 
of  people  to  see  me  off.  Somehow  I  don't  seem  interested 
in  them  very  much.  My  mind  is  pretty  well  occupied.  I 
am  trying  to  make  conversation,  but  am  more  interested  in 
the  people  and  the  boat  and  those  who  are  going  to  travel 
with  me. 


52  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Many  of  the  passengers  on  the  boat  are  bringing  their 
children  that  I  may  be  introduced.     I  don't  mind  children. 

"I  have  seen  you  so  many  times  in  the  pictures."  I 
find  myself  smiling  at  them  graciously  and  pleasantly, 
especially  the  children. 

I  doubt  if  I  am  really  sincere  in  this,  as  it  is  too  early 
in  the  morning.  Despite  the  fact  that  I  love  children,  I 
find  them  difficult  to  meet.  I  feel  rather  inferior  to  them. 
Most  of  them  have  assurance,  have  not  yet  been  cursed 
with  self-consciousness. 

And  one  has  to  be  very  much  on  his  best  behavior  with 
children  because  they  detect  our  insincerity.  I  find  there 
are  quite  a  lot  of  children  on  board. 

Everyone  is  so  pleasant,  especially  those  left  behind. 
Handkerchiefs  are  Waving.  The  boat  is  off.  We  start  to 
move,  the  waters  are  churning.  Am  feeling  very  sad, 
rather  regretful — think  what  a  nice  man  my  lawyer  is. 

We  turn  around  the  bend  and  get  into  the  channel.  The 
crowds  are  but  little  flies  now.  In  this  fleeting  dramatic 
moment  there  comes  the  feeling  of  leaving  something  very 
dear  behind. 

The  camera  man  and  many  of  his  brothers  are  aboard. 
I  discover  him  as  I  turn  around.  I  did  not  want  to  discover 
anyone  just  then.  I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  sky  and  water. 
But  I  am  still  Charlie  Chaplin.  I  must  be  photographed — 
and  am. 

We  are  passing  the  Statue  of  Liberty.  He  asks  me  to  wave 
and  throw  kisses,  which  rather  annoys  me. 

The  thing  is  too  obvious.    It  offends  my  sense  of  sincerity. 

The  Statue  of  Liberty  is  thrilling,  dramatic,  a  glorious 
symbol.  I  would  feel  self-conscious  and  cheap  in  deliber- 
ately waving  and  throwing  kisses  at  it.    I  will  be  myself. 

I  refuse. 

The  incident  of  the  photographic  seeker  before  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  upset  me.  I  felt  that  he  was  trying  to  capitalize 
the  statue.  His  request  was  deliberate,  insincere.  It 
offended  me.     It  would  have  been  like  calling  an  audience 


OFF  TO  EUROPE  23 

to  witness  the  placing  of  flowers  upon  a  grave.  Patriotism 
is  too  deep  a  feeling  to  depict  in  the  posing  for  a  photo- 
graph. Why  are  attempts  made  to  parade  such  emotions? 
I  feel  glad  that  I  have  the  courage  to  refuse. 

As  I  turn  from  the  photographer  I  feel  a  sense  of  relief.  I 
am  to  have  a  reprieve  from  such  annoyances.  Reporters  for 
the  while  are  left  behind.     It  is  a  delicious  sense  of  security. 

I  am  ready  for  the  new  adjustment.  I  am  in  a  new 
world,  a  little  city  of  its  own,  where  there  are  new  people 
— people  who  may  be  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant,  and 
mine  is  the  interesting  job  of  placing  them  in  their  proper 
category.  I  want  to  explore  new  lands  and  I  feel  that  I 
shall  have  ample  opportunity  on  such  an  immense  ship. 
The  Olympic  is  enormous  and  I  conjure  up  all  sorts  of 
pleasure  to  be  had  in  its  different  rooms — Turkish  baths, 
gymnasium,  music  rooms — its  Ritz-Carlton  restaurant, 
where  everything  is  elaborate  and  of  ornate  splendor.  I 
find  myself  looking  forward  to  my  evening  meal. 

We  go  to  the  Ritz  grill  to  dine.  Everyone  is  pleasant. 
I  seem  to  sense  the  feel  of  England  immediately.  Foreign 
food — a  change  of  system — the  different  bill  of  fare,  with 
money  in  terms  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  And  the 
dishes — pheasant,  grouse,  and  wild  duck.  For  the  first 
time  I  feel  the  elegant  gentleman,  the  man  of  means. 

I  ask  questions  and  discover  that  there  are  really  some 
very  interesting  people  aboard.  But  I  resent  anyone  telling 
me  about  them.  I  want  to  discover  them  myself.  I  almost 
shout  when  some  one  tries  to  read  me  a  passenger  list. 
This  is  my  desert  island — I  am  going  to  explore  it  myself. 
The  prospect  is  intriguing.  I  am  three  thousand  miles  from 
Hollywood  and  three  thousand  miles  from  Europe.  For 
the  moment  I  belong  to  neither. 

God  be  praised,  I  am  myself. 

It  is  my  little  moment  of  happiness,  the  glorious  "to-day  " 
that  is  sandwiched  in  between  the  exhausting  "yesterday" 
of  Los  Angeles  and  the  portentous  "to-morrow"  of  Europe. 

For  th^  mQment  I  ajn  content, 


Ill 

DAYS   ON   SHIPBOARD 

I  NOTICE  a  thoughtful-looking,  studious  sort  of  man 
seated  across  from  us.  He  is  reading  a  book,  a  different 
sort  of  book,  if  covers  mean  anything.  It  looks  formidable, 
a  sort  of  intellectual  fodder.  I  wonder  who  he  is.  I  weave 
all  sorts  of  romance  about  him.  I  place  him  in  all  sorts  of 
intellectual  undertakings,  though  he  may  be  a  college  pro- 
fessor. I  would  love  to  know  him.  I  feel  that  he  is  inter- 
ested in  us.  I  mention  it  to  Knobloch.  He  keeps  looking 
at  us.  Knobloch  tells  me  he  is  Gillette,  the  safety-razor 
man.  I  feel  like  romancing  about  him  more  than  ever. 
I  wonder  what  he  is  reading?  I  would  love  to  know  him. 
It  is  our  loss,  I  believe.  And  I  never  learned  what  the  book 
was  that  he  was  reading. 

There  are  very  few  pretty  girls  aboard.  I  never  have  any 
luck  that  way.  And  it  is  a  weakness  of  mine.  I  feel  that  it 
would  be  awfully  pleasant  to  cross  the  ocean  with  a  number 
of  nice  girls  who  were  pretty  and  who  would  take  me  as  I 
am.  We  listened  to  the  music  and  retired  early,  this  because 
of  a  promise  to  myself  that  I  would  do  lots  of  reading  aboard. 
I  have  a  copy  of  Max  Eastman's  poems,  colors,  of  life,  a 
volume  of  treasures.  I  try  to  read  them,  but  am  too  nervous. 
The  type  passes  in  parade,  but  I  assimilate  nothing,  so  I 
prepare  to  sleep  and  be  in  good  shape  for  the  morning. 
But  that  is  also  impossible. 

I  am  beyond  sleep  to-night  now.  I  am  in  something  new, 
something  pregnant  with  expectation.  The  immediate  future 
is  too  alluring  for  sleep. 


DAYS  ON  SHIPBOARD  25 

How  shall  I  be  received  in  England?  What  sort  of  a  trip 
shall  I  have  ?  Whom  shall  I  meet  on  board  ?  The  thoughts 
chased  one  another  round  my  brain  and  back  again,  all 
running  into  one  another  in  their  rambling. 

I  get  up  at  one  o'clock.  Decide  to  read  again.  This  time 
H.  G.  Wells's  Outline  of  History.  Impossible!  It  doesn't 
register.  I  try  to  force  it  by  reading  aloud.  It  can't  be  done. 
The  tongue  can't  cheat  the  brain,  and  right  now  reading 
is  out  of  the  question. 

I  get  up  and  go  to  see  if  Knobloch  is  in.  He  sleeps  audibly 
and  convincingly.     He  is  not  making  his  debut. 

I  go  back  to  my  room.  I  rather  feel  sorry  for  me.  If 
only  the  Turkish  baths  were  open  I  could  while  a  few  hours 
of  time  away  until  morning.  Thus  I  meditate.  The  last 
thing  I  remember  it  is  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  the 
next  thing  eleven-thirty.  I  can  hear  a  great  bit  of  excite- 
ment going  on  outside  my  cabin  door.  There  are  a  lot  of 
little  children  there  with  autograph  books.  I  tell  them  that 
I  will  sign  them  later  and  have  them  leave  the  books  with 
my  secretary,  Tom  Harrington. 

There  is  a  composite  squeal  of  pleasure  at  this  and  a 
sickening  fear  comes  over  me.  I  call  Tom.  He  enters  amid 
a  raft  of  autograph  books.  I  start  to  sign,  then  postpone  it 
until  after  breakfast. 

Knobloch  comes  in  all  refreshed  and  with  that  radiant 
sort  of  cheerfulness  that  I  resent  in  the  morning.  Am  I 
going  to  get  up  for  lunch  or  will  I  have  it  in  my  cabin? 
There  is  a  pleading  lethargy  that  says,  "Take  it  in  bed," 
but  I  cannot  overcome  the  desire  to  explore  and  the  feeling 
of  expectancy  of  something  about  to  happen — I  was  to  see 
somebody  or  meet  somebody — so  I  decide  to  have  luncheon 
in  the  dining  room.  I  am  giving  myself  the  emotional 
stimulus.     Nothing  comes  off.    We  meet  nobody. 

After  lunch  a  bit  of  exercise.  We  run  around  the  deck  for 
a  couple  of  miles.  It  brings  back  thoughts  of  the  days 
when  I  ran  in  Marathon  races.  I  feel  rather  self-conscious, 
however,  as  I  am  being  pointed  out  by  passengers.    With 


26  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

each  lap  it  gets  worse.  If  there  was  only  a  place  where  I 
could  run  with  nobody  looking.  We  finally  stop  and  lean 
against  the  rail. 

All  the  stewards  are  curious.  They  are  trying  to  pick  me 
out.  I  notice  it  and  pretend  not  to  notice  it.  I  go  up  into 
the  gymnasium  and  look  around.  There  is  every  contrivance 
to  give  joy  to  healthy  bodies.  And  best  of  all,  nobody  else 
is  there.    Wonderful! 

I  try  the  weights,  the  rowing  machine,  the  traveling 
rings,  punch  the  bag  a  bit,  swing  some  Indian  clubs,  and  leap 
to  the  trapeze.  Suddenly  the  place  is  packed.  News  travels 
quickly  aboard  ship.  Some  come  for  the  purpose  of  exer- 
cising, like  myself;  others  out  of  curiosity  to  watch  me  per- 
form. I  grow  careless.  I  don't  care  to  go  through  with  it. 
I  put  on  my  coat  and  hat  and  go  to  my  room,  finding  that 
the  old  once-discarded  "prop"  smile  is  useful  as  I  make  my 
way  through  the  crowd. 

At  four  o'clock  we  have  tea.  I  decide  that  the  people 
are  interesting.  I  love  to  meet  so  many.  Perhaps  they  are 
the  same  ones  I  hated  to  see  come  into  the  gym,  but  I  feel 
no  sense  of  being  paradoxical.  The  gymnasium  belongs  to 
individuals.  The  tea  room  suggests  and  invites  social  inter- 
course. Somehow  there  are  barriers  and  conventionalities 
that  one  cannot  break,  for  all  the  vaunted  "freedom  of 
shipboard.".  I  feel  it's  a  sort  of  awkward  situation.  How 
is  it  possible  to  meet  people  on  the  same  footing?  I  hear 
of  it,  I  read  of  it,  but  somehow  I  cannot  meet  people 
myself  and  stay  myself. 

I  immediately  shift  any  blame  from  myself  and  decide 
that  the  first-class  passengers  are  all  snobs.  I  resolve  to 
try  the  second-class  or  the  third-class.  Somehow  I  can't 
meet  these  people.  I  get  irritable  and  decide  deliberately 
to  seek  the  other  classes  of  passengers  and  the  boat  crew. 

Another  walk  around  the  deck.  The  salt  air  makes  me 
feel  good  in  spite  of  my  mental  bothers.  I  look  over  the  rail 
and  see  other  passengers,  second  or  third  class,  and  in  one 
large  group  the  ship's  firemen  and  stokers.     They  are  the' 


DAYS  ON  SHIPBOARD  27 

night  force  come  on  deck  for  a  breath  of  air  between  working 
their  shifts  in  the  hellish  heat  below. 

They  see  and  recognize  me.  To  their  coal-blackened 
faces  come  smiles.  They  shout ' '  Hooray ! "  "  Hello,  Charlie ! ' ' 
Ah,  I  am  discovered.  But  I  tingle  all  over  with  pleasure. 
As  those  leathery  faces  crack  into  lines  through  the  dust 
I  sense  sincerity.  There  is  a  friendly  feeling.  I  warm  to 
them. 

There  is  a  game  of  cricket  going  on.  That's  intriguing. 
I  love  cricket.  Wish  I  could  try  my  hand  at  it.  Wish  there 
was  enough  spontaneity  about  first-cabin  passengers  to 
start  a  game.  I  wish  I  wasn't  so  darn  self-conscious.  They 
must  have  read  my  thoughts.  I  am  invited  timidly,  then 
vociferously,  to  play  a  game.  Their  invitation  cheers  me. 
I  feel  one  of  them.  A  spirit  of  adventure  beckons.  I  leap 
over  the  rail  and  right  into  the  midst  of  it. 

I  carry  with  me  into  the  steerage  just  a  bit  of  self -con- 
sciousness— there  are  so  many  trying  to  play  upon  me. 
I  am  looked  upon  as  a  celebrity,  not  a  cricket  player.  But 
I  do  my  part  and  try  and  we  get  into  the  game.  Suddenly 
a  motion-picture  camera  man  bobs  up  from  somewhere. 
What  leeches!    He  snaps  a  picture.    This  gets  sickening. 

One  of  the  crew  has  hurriedly  made  himself  up  as  "  Charley 
Chaplin."  He  causes  great  excitement.  This  also  impresses 
me.  I  find  myself  acting  a  part,  looking  surprised  and  in- 
terested. I  am  conscious  of  the  fact  that  this  thing  has 
been  done  many  times  before.  Then  on  second  thought  I 
realize  it  is  all  new  to  them  and  that  they  mean  well,  so  I 
try  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  There  comes  a 
pause  in  the  cricket  game.  Nobody  is  very  much  interested 
in  it.  ' 

I  find  that  I  have  been  resurrected  again  in  character  and 
am  the  center  of  attraction.  There  are  calls,  "What  have 
you  done  with  your  mustache?"  I  look  up  with  a  grin  and 
ready  to  answer  anything  they  ask,  these  chaps  who  labor 
hard  and  must  play  the  same  way.  But  I  see  that  hun- 
dreds of  first-class  passengers  are  looking  down  over  the 


28  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

rail  as  though  at  a  side  show.  This  affects  my  pride,  though 
I  dare  say  I  am  supersensitive.  I  have  an  idea  that  they 
think  I  am  "Chariie"  performing  for  them.  This  irritates 
me.    I  throw  up  my  hands  and  say,  "See  you  to-morrow." 

One  of  the  bystanders  presents  himself.  "Chariie,  don't 
you  remember  me? "  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  his  face, 
but  cannot  place  him. 

Now  I  have  it,  of  course;  we  worked  in  some  show  to- 
gether. Yes,  I  can  actually  place  him.  He  has  a  negative 
personality.  I  remernber  that  he  played  a  small  part,  a 
chorus  man  or  something  of  the  sort.  This  brings  back 
all  sorts  of  reminiscences,  some  depressing  and  others  inter- 
esting. I  wonder  what  his  life  has  been.  I  remember  him 
now  very  plainly.  He  was  a  bad  actor,  poor  chap.  I  never 
knew  him  very  well  even  when  we  worked  in  the  same 
company.  And  now  he  is  stoking  in  the  hold  of  a  ship. 
I  think  I  know  what  his  emotions  are  and  understand 
the  reasons.     I  wonder  whether  he  understands  mine. 

I  try  to  be  nice,  even  though  I  discover  the  incident  is 
not  overinteresting.  But  I  try  to  make  it  so — try  harder 
just  because  he  never  meant  a  great  deal  before.  But  now 
it  seems  to  take  on  a  greater  significance,  the  meeting  with 
this  chap,  and  I  find  myself  being  extra  nice  to  him,  or  at 
least  trying  to  be. 

Darn  it  all,  the  first-class  passengers  are  looking  on 
again,  and  I  will  not  perform  for  them.  They  arouse  pride, 
indignation.  I  have  decided  to  become  very  exclusive  on 
board.    That's  the  way  to  treat  them. 

It  is  five  o'clock.  I  decide  to  take  a  Turkish  bath^  Ah, 
what  a  difference  traveling  first  class  after  the  experience 
in  the  steerage! 

There  is  nothing  like  money.  It  does  make  life  so  easy. 
These  thoughts  come  easily  in  the  luxury  of  a  warm  bath. 
I  feel  a  little  more  kindly  disposed  toward  the  first-cabin 
passengers.    After  all,  I  am  an  emotional  cuss. 

Discover  that  there  are  some  very  nice  people  on  board. 
I  get  into  conversation  with  two  or  three.    They  have  the 


DAYS  ON  SHIPBOARD  29 

same  ideas  about  lots  of  things  that  I  have.  This  discovery- 
gives  me  a  fit  of  introspection  and  I  discover  that  I  am, 
indeed,  a  narrow-minded  Httle  pinhead. 

What  peculiar  sights  one  sees  in  a  Turkish  bath.  The 
two  extremes,  fat  and  thin,  and  so  seldom  a  perfect  physique. 
I  am  a  discovered  man — even  in  my  nakedness.  One  man 
will  insist  upon  showing  me  how  to  do  a  hand  balance  in 
the  hot  room.  Also  a  somersault  and  a  back  flip.  It  chal- 
lenges my  nimbleness.  Can  I  do  them?  Good  heavens — 
no!    I'm  not  an  acrobat,  I'm  an  actor.    I  am  indignant. 

Then  he  points  out  the  value  of  regular  exercise,  outlining 
for  my  benefit  a  daily  course  for  me  to  do  aboard.  I  don't 
want  any  daily  course  and  I  tell  him  so. 

"But,"  says  he,  "if  you  keep  this  up  for  a  week  you  may 
be  able  to  do  the  stunts  I  do." 

But  I  can't  see  it  even  with  that  prospect  ahead,  because 
to  save  my  life  I  can't  think  of  any  use  I  would  have  for 
the  hand  balance,  somersault,  or  the  back  flip. 

I  meet  another  man  who  has  maneuvered  until  he  has  me 
pinned  in  a  comer.  He  shows  a  vital  interest  in  Theda 
Bara.  Do  I  know  her?  What  sort  of  a  person  is  she? 
Does  she  "vamp"  in  real  life?  Do  I  know  Louise  Glaum? 
He  sort  of  runs  to  the  vampish  ladies.  Do  I  know  any  of 
the  old-timers?  So  his  conversation  goes  depressingly  on, 
with  me  answering  mostly  in  the  negative. 

They  must  think  I  am  very  dull.  Why,  anyone  should 
know  the  answers  to  the  questions,  they  figure.  There  are 
grave  doubts  as  to  whether  I  am  Charlie  Chaplin  or  not. 
I  wish  they  would  decide  that  I  am  not.  I  confess  that  I 
have  never  met  Theda  Bara.  They  return  to  motion 
pictures  of  my  own.  How  do  I  think  up  my  funny  stunts? 
It  is  too  much.  Considerably  against  my  wishes  I  have  to 
retreat  from  the  hot  room.  I  want  to  get  away  from  this 
terrible,  strenuous  experience.    But  retreat  is  not  so  easy. 

A  little  rotund  individual,  smiling,  lets  me  know  that  he 
has  seen  a  number  of  my  pictures.    He  says: 

"I  have  seen  you  so  much  in  'reel'  life  that  I  wanted 


30  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

to  talk  to  you  in  'real'  life."  He  laughs  at  this  bright  little 
sally  of  his  and  I  dare  say  he  thinks  it  original.  The  first 
time  I  heard  it  I  choked  on  my  milk  bottle. 

But  I  grinned.  I  always  do.  He  asked  what  I  was  taking 
a  Turkish  bath  for,  and  I  told  him  I  was  afraid  of  acquiring 
a  bit  of  a  stomach.  I  was  speaking  his  language.  He  knew 
the  last  word  in  taking  down  stomachs.  He  went  through 
all  the  stomach-reducing  routine.  He  rolled,  he  slapped, 
he  stretched  across  a  couch  on  his  stomach  while  he  breathed 
deeply  and  counted  a  hundred.  He  had  several  other  stunts, 
but  I  stopped  him.  He  had  given  me  enough  ideas  for  a 
beginning.  He  got  up  panting,  and  I  noticed  that  the 
most  prominent  thing  about  him  was  his  stomach  and  that 
he  had  the  largest  stomach  in  the  room.  But  he  admitted 
that  the  exercise  had  fixed  him  O.  K. 

Eventually  he  glanced  down  at  my  feet.  "Good  heavens! 
I  always  thought  you  had  big  feet.  Have  you  got  them 
insured?"  I  can  stand  it  no  longer.  I  burst  through  the 
door  into  the  cooling  room  and  on  to  the  slab. 

At  last  I  am  where  I  can  relax.  The  masseur  is  an  Eng- 
lishman and  has  seen  most  of  my  pictures.  He  talks  about 
"Shoulder  Arms."  He  mentions  things  in  my  pictures 
that  I  never  remembered  putting  there.  He  had  always 
thought  I  was  a  pretty  muscular  guy,  but  was  sadly  dis- 
appointed. 

"How  do  you  do  your  funny  falls?"  He  is  surprised  that 
I  am  not  covered  with  bruises.  Do  I  know  Clara  Kimball 
Young?    Are  most  of  the  people  in  pictures  immoral? 

I  make  pretenses.  I  am  asleep.  I  am  very  tired.  An 
audience  has  drifted  in  and  I  hear  a  remark  about  my  feet. 
I  am  manhandled  and  punched  and  then  handed  on  into 
another  room. 

At  last  I  can  relax.  I  am  about  to  fall  asleep  when  one 
of  the  passengers  asks  if  I  would  mind  signing  my  autograph 
for  him.  But  I  conquer  them.  Patience  wins  and  I  fall 
asleep  to  be  awakened  at  seven  o'clock  and  told  to  get  out 
of  the  bath. 


DAYS  ON  SHIPBOARD  31 

I  dress  for  dinner.  We  go  into  the  smoking  room.  I 
meet  the  demon  camera  man.  I  do  not  know  him,  as  he 
is  dressed  up  Uke  a  regular  person.  We  get  into  conversa- 
tion.   Well,  hardly  conversation.    He  talks. 

"Listen,  Charlie,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I've  been  assigned 
to  photograph  you  on  this  trip.  Now  we  might  as  well 
get  to  know  each  other  and  make  it  easy  for  both  of  us,  so 
the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  let's  do  it  fully  and  get  it  over 
with.  Now,  let's  see,  I'll  take  to-morrow  and  part  of  the 
next  day.  I  want  to  photograph  you  with  the  third-class 
passengers,  then  the  second-class,  and  have  you  shown 
playing  games  on  deck.  If  you  have  your  make-up  and 
your  mustache, hat,  shoes,  and  cane,.it  will  be  all  the  better." 

I  call  for  help.  He  will  have  to  see  my  personal  repre- 
sentative, Mr.  Robinson. 

He  says,  "I  won't  take  no  for  an  answer." 

And  I  let  him  know  that  the  only  thing  he  isn't  going  to 
do  on  the  trip  is  to  photograph  me.  I  explain  that  it  would 
be  a  violation  of  contract  with  the  First  National  exhibitors. 

"I  have  been  assigned  to  photograph  you  and  I'm  going 
to  photograph  you,"  he  says.  And  then  he  told  me  of  his 
other  camera  conquests,  of  his  various  experiences  with 
politicians  who  did  not  want  to  be  photographed. 

"I  had  to  break  through  the  palace  walls  to  photograph 
the  King  of  England,  but  I  got  him.  Also  had  quite  a  time 
with  Foch,  but  I  have  his  face  in  celluloid  now."  And  he 
smiled  as  he  deprecatingly  looked  up  and  down  my  some- 
what small  and  slight  figure. 

This  is  the  last  straw.  I  defy  him  to  photograph  me. 
For  from  now  on  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  am  going 
to  lock  myself  in  my  cabin — I'll  fool  him. 

But  my  whole  evening  is  spoiled.  I  go  to  bed  cursing 
the  motion-picture  industry,  the  makers  of  film,  and  those 
responsible  for  camera  men.  Why  did  I  take  the  trip? 
What  is  it  all  for?  It  has  gotten  beyond  me  already  and 
it  is  my  trip,  my  vacation. 

It  is  early,  and  I  decide  to  read  a  bit.    I  pick  up  a  booklet 


32  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

of  poems  by  Clause  McKay,  a  young  negro  poet  who  is 
writing  splendid  verse  of  the  inspired  sort.    Reading  a  few 
of  his  gems,  my  own  annoyances  seem  puny  and  almost 
childish. 
I  read: 

The  Tropics  of  New  York 

Bananas  ripe  and  green,  and  ginger  root, 

Cocoa  in  pods  and  alligator  pears, 
And  tangerines  and  mangoes  and  grapefruit, 

Fit  for  the  highest  prize  at  parish  fairs. 

See  in  the  windows,  bringing  memories 

Of  fruit  trees,  laden  by  low-singing  rills, 
And  dewy  dawns  and  mystical  blue  skies 

In  benediction  over  nimlike  hills. 

Mine  eyes  grow  dim  and  ,1  could  no  more  gaze. 

A  wave  of  longing  through  my  body  swept. 
And  a  hunger  for  the  old,  familiar  ways; 

I  turned  aside  and  bowed  my  head  and  wept. 


I  read  again: 


Lovely,  dainty  Spanish  Needle, 
With  your  yellow  flower  and  white; 

Dew-bedecked  and  softly  sleeping; 
Do  you  think  of  me  to-night? 

Shadowed  by  the  spreading  mango 
Nodding  o'er  the  rippling  stream. 

Tell  me,  dear  plant,  of  my  childhood, 
Do  you  of  the  exile  dream? 

Do  you  see  me  by  the  brook's  side, 
Catching  grayfish  'neath  the  stone, 

As  you  did  the  day  you  whispered: 
"Leave  the  harmless  dears  alone?" 

Do  you  see  me  in  the  meadow, 
Coming  from  the  woodland  spring, 

With  a  bamboo  on  my  shoulder 
And  a  pail  slung  from  a  string? 


DAYS  ON  SHIPBOARD  33 

Do  you  see  me,  all  expectant, 

Lying  in  an  orange  grove, 
While  the  swee-swees  sing  above  me 

Waiting  for  my  elf -eyed  love? 

Lovely,  dainty  Spanish  Needle; 

Source  to  me  of  sweet  delight, 
In  your  far-off  sunny  southland 

Do  you  dream  of  me  to-night? 

I  am  passing  this  along  because  I  don't  believe  it  is  pub- 
lished in  this  country,  and  I  feel  as  though  I  am  extending 
a  rare  treat.  They  brought  me  better  rest  that  night — a 
splendid  sleep. 

Next  morning  there  were  more  autograph  books  and 
several  wireless  messages  from  intimate  friends  wishing 
me  bon  voyage.    They  are  all  very  interesting. 

Also  there  are  about  two  htmdred  ship  postcards.  Would 
I  mind  signing  them  for  the  stewards?  I  am  feeling  very 
good-natured  and  I  enjoy  signing  anything  this  morning. 
I  pass  the  forenoon  till  lunch  time. 

I  really  feel  as  though  I  haven't  met  anybody.  They 
say  that  barriers  are  lowered  aboard  ship,  but  not  for  me. 

Ed  Knobloch  and  I  keep  very  much  to  ourselves.  But 
all  the  time  I  have  been  sort  of  wondering  what  became 
of  the  beautiful  opera  singer  who  came  aboard  and  was 
photographed  with  me.  I  wonder  if  being  photographed 
together  constitutes  an  introduction?  I  have  not  seen  her 
since  the  picture. 

We  get  seats  in  deck  chairs.  Knobloch  and  myself. 
Ed  is  busy  reading  Economic  Democracy  by  some  one  im- 
portant. I  have  splendid  intentions  of  reading  Wells's 
Outline  of  History.  My  intentions  falter  after  a  few  para- 
graphs. I  look  at  the  sea,  at  people  passing  all  around  the 
ship.  Every  once  in  a  while  I  glance  at  Knobloch,  hoping 
that  he  is  overcome  by  his  book  and  that  he  will  look  up, 
but  Knobloch  apparently  has  no  such  intention. 

Suddenly  I  notice,  about  twenty  chairs  away,  the  beauti- 
ful singer.  I  don't  know  why  I  always  have  this  peculiar 
4 


34  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

embarrassment  that  grips  me  now.  I  am  trying  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  go  over  and  make  myself  known.  No,  such  an 
ordeal  would  be  too  terrific.  The  business  of  making  one- 
self known  is  a  problem.  Here  she  is  within  almost  speaking 
distance  and  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  meet  her  or  not. 
I  glance  away  again.  She  is  looking  in  my  direction.  I 
pretend  not  to  see  her  and  quickly  turn  my  head  and  get 
into  conversation  with  Knobloch,  who  thinks  I  have  suddenly 
gone  insane. 

"Isn't  that  lady  the  opera  singer?"  I  ask. 

"Yes." 

That  about  expresses  his  interest. 

"Shouldn't  we  go  over  and  make  ourselves  known?"  I 
suggest. 

"By  all  means,  if  you  wish  it."  And  he  is  up  and  off 
almost  before  I  can  catch  my  breath. 

We  get  up  and  walk  around  the  deck.  I  just  do  not  know 
how  to  meet  people.  At  last  the  moment  comes  in  the 
smoking  room,  where  they  are  having  "log  auction."  She 
is  with  two  gentlemen.  We  meet.  She  introduces  one  as 
her  husband,  the  other  as  a  friend'. 

She  reprimands  me  for  not  speaking  to  her  sooner.  I 
try  to  pretend  that  I  had  not  seen  her.  This  amuses  her 
mightily  and  she  becomes  charming.  We  become  fast 
friends.  Both  she  and  her  husband  join  us  at  dinner  the 
following  night.  We  recall  mutual  friends.  Discover  that 
there  are  quite  a  lot  of  nice  people  aboard.  She  is  Mme. 
Namara  and  in  private  life  Mrs.  Guy  Bolton,  wife  of  the 
author  of  "Sally."  They  are  on  their  way  to  London,  where 
he  is  to  witness  the  English  opening  of  "Sally."  We  have 
a  delightful  evening  at  dinner  and  then  later  in  their  cabin. 


IV 

HELLO  I  ENGLAND 

EVERYTHING  sails  along  smoothly  and  delightfully 
until  the  night  of  the  concert  for  the  seaman's  fund. 
This  entertainment  is  customary  on  all  liners  and  usually 
is  held  on  the  last  night  out.  The  passengers  provide  the 
entertainment. 

I  am  requested  to  perform.  The  thought  scares  me.  It 
is  a  great  tragedy,  and,  much  as  I  would  like  to  do  some- 
thing, I  am  too  exhausted  and  tired.  I  beg  to  be  excused, 
I  never  like  making  appearances  in  public.  I  find  that  they 
are  always  disappointing. 

I  give  all  manner  of  reasons  for  not  appearing — one  that 
I  have  no  particular  thing  to  do,  nothing  arranged  for, 
that  it  is  against  my  principles  because  it  spoils  illusion — 
especially  for  the  children.  When  they  see  me  minus  my 
hat,  cane,  and  shoes,  it  is  like  taking  the  whiskers  off  Santa 
Claus.  And  not  having  my  equipment  with  me,  I  feel  very- 
conscious  of  this.  I  am  always  self-conscious  when  meeting 
children  without  my  make-up  for  that  very  reason.  I  must 
say  the  officers  were  very  sympathetic  and  understood  my 
reasons  for  not  wanting  to  appear,  and  I  can  assure  you  that 
the  concert  was  a  distinct  success  without  me.  There  were 
music  and  recitations  and  singing  and  dancing,  and  one 
passenger  did  a  whistling  act,  imitating  various  birds  and 
animals,  also  the  sawing  of  wood,  with  the  screeching  sound 
made  when  the  saw  strikes  a  knot.    It  was  very  effective. 

I  watched  and  enjoyed  the  concert  immensely  until  near 


36  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

the  end,  when  the  entertainment  chairman  announced  that 
I  was  there  and  that  if  the  audience  urged  strongly  enough 
I  might  do  something  for  them.  This  was  very  discon- 
certing, and  after  I  had  explained  that  I  was  physically 
exhausted  and  had  nothing  prepared  I  am  sure  the  audience 
understood.  The  chairman,  however,  announced  that  it 
did  not  matter,  as  they  could  see  Charlie  Chaplin  at  any 
time  for  a  nickel — and  that's  that. 

The  next  day  is  to  be  the  last  aboard.  We  are  approaching 
land.  I  have  got  used  to  the  boat  and  everybody  has  got 
used  to  me.  I  have  ceased  to  be  a  curiosity.  They  have 
taken  me  at  my  face  value — face  without  mustache  and 
kindred  make-up.  We  have  exchanged  addresses,  cards, 
invitations;  have  made  new  friends,  met  a  lot  of  charming 
people,  names  too  numerous  to  mention. 

The  lighter  is  coming  out.  The  top  deck  is  black  with 
men.  Somebody  tells  me  they  are  French  and  British 
camera  men  coming  to  welcome  me.  I  am  up  on  the  top 
deck,  saying  good-by  to  Mme.  Namara  and  her  husband. 
They  are  getting  off  at  Cherbourg.    We  are  staying  aboard. 

Suddenly  there  is  an  avalanche.  All  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  armed  with  pads,  pencils,  motion-picture  cameras, 
still  cameras.  There  is  an  embarrassing  pause.  They  are 
looking  for  Charlie  Chaplin.  Some  have  recognized  me. 
I  see  them  searching  among  our  little  group.  Eventually 
I  am  pointed  out. 

"Why,  here  he  is!" 

My  friends  suddenly  become  frightened  and  desert  me. 
I  feel  very  much  alone,  the  victim.  Square-headed  gentle- 
men with  manners  different — they  are  raising  their  hats. 

"Do  I  speak  French?"  Some  are  speaking  in  French  to 
me.  It  means  nothing.  I  am  bewildered.  Others  English. 
They  all  seem  too  curious  to  even  do  their  own  business. 
I  find  that  they  are  personally  interested.  Camera  men 
are  forgetting  to  shoot  their  pictures. 

But  they  recover  themselves  after  their  curiosity  has 
been  gratified.    Then  the  deluge: 


HELLO!  ENGLAND  37 

"Are  you  visiting  in  London?" 

"Why  did  you  come  over?" 

"Did  you  bring  your  make-up?" 

"Are  you  going  to  make  pictures  over  here?" 

Then  from  Frenchmen : 

"Will  I  visit  France?" 

"Am  I  going  to  Russia?" 

I  try  to  answer  them  all. 

"Will  you  visit  Ireland?" 

"I  don't  expect  to  do  so." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  Irish  question?" 

"It  requires  too  much  thought." 

"Are  you  a  Bolshevik?" 

"I  am  an  artist,  not  a  politician." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  visit  Russia?" 

"Because  I  am  interested  in  any  new  idea." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Lenin?" 

"I  think  him  a  very  remarkable  man." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  is  expressing  a  new  idea." 

"Do  you  believe  in  Bolshevism?" 

"I  am  not  a  politician." 

Others  ask  me  to  give  them  a  message  to  France.  A 
message  to  London.  What  have  I  to  say  to  the  people  of 
Manchester?  Will  I  meet  Bernard  Shaw?  Will  I  meet 
H.  G.  Wells?  Is  it  true  that  I  am  going  to  be  knighted? 
How  would  I  solve  the  unemployment  problem? 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  rather  mysterious  gentleman 
pulls  me  to  one  side  and  tells  me  that  he  knew  my  father 
intimately  and  acted  as  agent  for  him  in  his  music-hall 
engagements.  Did  I  anticipate  working?  If  so,  he  could 
get  me  an  engagement.  Would  I  give  him  the  first  oppor- 
tunity? Anyway,  he  was  very  pleased  to  meet  me.  If  I 
wanted  a  nice  quiet  rest  I  could  come  down  to  his  place  and 
spend  a  few  days  with  my  kind  of  people,  the  people  I  liked. 

I  am  rescued  by  my  secretaries,  who  insist  that  I  go  to 
my  cabin  and  lie  down.     Anything  the  newspaper  men 


38  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

have  to  ask  they  will  answer  for  me.  I  am  dragged  away 
bewildered. 

Is  this  what  I  came  six  thousand  miles  for?  Is  this  rest? 
Where  is  that  vacation  that  I  pictured  so  vividly? 

I  lie  down  and  nap  until  dinner  time.  I  have  dinner  in 
my  cabin.    Now  comes  another  great  problem. 

Tipping.  One  has  the  feeling  that  if  you  are  looked  at 
you  should  tip.  One  thing  that  I  believe  in,  though — 
tipping.  It  gets  you  good  service.  It  is  money  well  spent. 
But  when  and  how  to  tip — that  is  the  question.  It  is  a 
great  problem  on  shipboard. 

There's  the  bedroom  steward,  the  waiter,  the  head  waiter, 
the  hallboy,  the  deck  steward,  boots,  bathroom  steward, 
Turkish  bath  attendants,  gymnasium  instructor,  smoking- 
room  steward,  lounge-room  steward,  page  boys,  elevator 
boys,  barber.  It  is  depressing.  I  am  harassed  as  to 
whether  to  tip  the  doctor  and  the  captain. 

I  am  all  excited  now;  full  of  expectancy.  Wonder  what's 
going  to  happen.  After  my  first  encounter  with  fifty  news- 
paper men  at  Cherbourg,  somehow  I  do  not  resent  it.  Rather 
like  it,  in  fact.  Being  a  personage  is  not  so  bad.  I  am  pre- 
pared for  the  fray.  It  is  exciting.  I  am  advancing  on 
Europe.  One  o'clock.  I  am  in  my  cabin.  We  are  to  dock 
in  the  morning. 

I  look  out  the  porthole.  I  hear  voices.  They  are  along- 
side the  dock.  Am  very  emotional  now.  The  mystery  of 
it  out  there  in  blackness  envelops  me.  I  revel  in  it — its 
promise.    We  are  at  Southampton.    We  are  in  England. 

To-morrow!    I  go  to  bed  thinking  of  it.    To-morrow! 

I  try  to  sleep,  childishly  reasoning  that  in  sleeping  I  will 
make  the  time  pass  more  quickly.  My  reasoning  was  sound, 
perhaps,  but  somewhere  in  my  anatomy  there  slipped  a 
cog.  I  could  not  sleep.  I  rolled  and  tossed,  counted  sheep, 
closed  my  eyes  and  lay  perfectly  still,  but  it  was  no  go. 
Somewhere  within  me  there  stirred  a  sort  of  Christmas 
Eve  feeling.    To-morrow  was  too  portentous. 

I  look  at  my  watch.    It  is  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.    I 


HELLO!  ENGLAND  39 

look  through  the  porthole.  It  is  pitch  dark  outside.  I  try- 
to  pierce  the  darkness,  but  can't.  Off  in  the  distance  I 
hear  voices  coming  out  of  the  night.  That  and  the  lapping 
of  the  waves  against  the  side  of  the  boat. 

Then  I  hear  my  name  mentioned  once,  twice,  three 
times.  I  am  thrilled.  I  tingle  with  expectancy  and  varying 
emotions.  It  is  all  so  peculiar  and  mysterious.  I  try  to 
throw  off  the  feeling.    I  can't. 

There  seems  to  be  no  one  awake  except  a  couple  of  men 
who  are  pacing  the  deck.  Longshoremen,  probably.  Every 
once  in  a  while  I  hear  the  mystic  "Charlie  Chaplin"  men- 
tioned. I  peer  through  the  porthole.  It  is  starting  to  rain. 
This  adds  to  the  spell.  I  turn  out  the  lights  and  get  back 
in  bed  and  try  to  sleep.    I  get  up  again  and  look  out. 

I  call  Robinson.    "Can  you  sleep?"  I  ask. 

"No.    Let's  get  up  and  dress."    It's  got  him,  too. 

We  get  up  and  walk  around  the  top  deck.  There  is  a 
curious  mixture  of  feelings  all  at  once.  I  am  thrilled  and 
depressed.  I  cannot  understand  the  depression.  We  keep 
walking  around  the  deck,  looking  over  the  side.  People 
are  looking  up,  but  they  don't  recognize  me  in  the  night. 
I  feel  myself  speculating,  wondering  if  it  is  going  to  be  the 
welcome  I  am  expecting. 

Scores  of  messages  have  been  arriving  all  day. 

"Will  you  accept  engagements?"  "Will  you  dine  with 
us?"  "How  about  a  few  days  in  the  country?"  I  cannot 
possibly  answer  them  all.  Not  receiving  replies,  they  send 
wireless  messages  to  the  captain. 

"Mr.  Lathom,  is  Mr.  Chaplin  on  board?"  "Has  my 
message  been  delivered?" 

I  have  never  received  so  many  messages.  "Will  you 
appear  on  Tuesday?"  "Will  you  dine  here?"  "Will  you 
join  a  revue?"  "Are  you  open  for  engagements?"  "I  am 
the  greatest  agent  in  the  world." 

One  of  the  messages  is  from  the  mayor  of  Southampton, 
welcoming  me  to  that  city.  Others  from  heads  of  the 
motion-picture  industry  in  Europe.     This  is  a  source  of 


40  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

great  worriment.  Welcomed  by  the  mayor.  It  will  prob- 
ably mean  a  speech.  I  hate  speeches,  I  can't  make  them. 
This  is  the  worst  specter  of  the  night. 

In  my  sleeplessness  I  go  back  to  my  cabin  and  try  to 
write  down  what  I  shall  say,  trying  to  anticipate  what  the 
mayor  will  say  to  me.  I  picture  his  speech  of  welcome. 
A  masterpiece  of  oratory  brought  forth  after  much  prepara- 
tion by  those  who  are  always  making  speeches.  It  is  their 
game,  this  speechmaking,  and  I  know  I  shall  appear  a 
hopeless  dub  with  my  reply. 

But  I  attack  it  valiantly.  I  write  sentence  after  sentence 
and  then  practice  before  the  mirror. 

"Mr.  Mayor  and  the  people  of  Southampton."  The  face 
that  peers  back  at  me  from  the  mirror  looks  rather  silly. 
I  think  of  Los  Angeles  and  wonder  how  they  would  take 
my  speech  there.  But  I  persevere.  I  write  more.  I  over- 
come that  face  in  the  looking-glass  to  such  an  extent  that 
I  want  a  wider  audience. 

I  call  Carl  Robinson.  I  make  him  sit  still  and  listen. 
I  make  my  speech  several  times.  He  is  kind  the  first  time 
and  the  second  time,  but  after  that  he  begins  to  get  fidgety. 
He  makes  suggestions.  I  take  out  some  lines  and  put  in 
others.  I  decide  that  it  is  prepared  and  leave  it.  I  am  to 
meet  the  mayor  in  the  morning  at  eight  o'clock. 

Eventually  I  get  to  bed  and  asleep,  a  fitful,  tossing 
sleep.  They  wake  me  in  the  morning.  People  are  outside 
my  door.    Carl  comes  in. 

"The  mayor  is  upstairs  waiting  for  you."  I  am  twenty 
minutes  late.    This  adds  to  my  inefficiency. 

I  am  pushed  and  tumbled  into  my  clothes,  then  taken 
by  the  arm,  as  if  I  were  about  to  be  arrested,  and  led  from 
my  cabin.  Good  Lord!  I've  forgotten  my  slip — my  speech, 
my  answer  to  the  mayor,  with  its  platform  gestures  that  I 
had  labored  with  during  the  long  night.  I  believed  that  I 
had  created  some  new  gestures  never  before  attempted  on 
platform,  or  in  pulpit,  but  I  was  lost  without  my  copy. 

But  there  is  little  time  for  regrets.    It  doesn't  take  long 


HELLO!  ENGLAND  41 

to  reach  any  place  when  that  place  is  holding  something 
fearful  for  you.  I  was  before  the  mayor  long  before  I  was 
ready  to  see  him. 

This  mayor  wasn't  true  to  type.  He  was  more  like  a 
schoolmaster.  Very  pleasant  and  concise,  with  tortoise- 
shell  rims  to  his  glasses  and  with  none  of  the  ornaments  of 
chain  and  plush  that  I  had  anticipated  as  part  of  the 
regalia  of  his  office.    This  was  somewhat  of  a  relief. 

There  are  lots  of  men,  women,  and  children  gathered 
about.  I  am  introduced  to  the  children.  I  am  whirled 
around  into  the  crowd,  and  when  I  turn  back  I  can't  quite 
make  out  who  is  the  niayor.  There  seems  to  be  a  roomful 
of  mayors.  Eventually  I  am  dug  from  behind.  I  turn. 
I  am  whirled  back  by  friendly  or  official  assistance.  Ah, 
here  is  the  mayor. 

I  stand  bewildered,  twirling  my  thumbs,  quite  at  a  loss 
as  to  what  is  expected  of  me. 

The  mayor  begins.  I  have  been  warned  that  it  is  going 
to  be  very  formal. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  on  behalf  of  the  citizens  of  Southampton — " 

Nothing  like  I  had  anticipated.  I  am  trying  to  think. 
Trying  to  hear  precisely  what  he  says.  I  think  I  have 
him  so  far.  But  it  is  nothing  like  I  had  anticipated.  My 
speech  doesn't  seem  to  fit  what  he  is  saying.  I  can't  help 
it.     I  will  use  it  anyhow,  at  least  as  much  as  I  can  recall. 

It  is  over.  I  mumble  some  inane  appreciation.  Nothing 
like  I  had  written,  with  nary  a  gesture  so  laboriously 
rehearsed. 

There  comes  interruptions  of  excited  mothers  with  their 
children. 

"This  is  my  little  girl." 

I  am  shaking  hands  mechanically  with  everybody.  From 
all  sides  autograph  albums  are  being  shoved  under  my 
nose.  Carl  is  warding  them  off,  protecting  me  as  much 
as  possible. 

I  am  aware  that  the  mayor  is  still  standing  there.  I  am 
trying  to  think  of  something  more  to  say.     All  visions  of 


42  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

language  seem  to  have  left  me.  I  find  myself  mumbling, 
"This  is  nice  of  you"  and  "I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you  all." 

Somebody  whispers  in  my  ear,  "Say  something  about 
the  English  cinema."  "Say  a  word  of  welcome  to  the 
English."  I  try  to  and  can't  utter  a  word,  but  the  same 
excitement  that  had  bothered  me  now  comes  forward  to 
my  aid. 

The  formal  handshaking  is  on. 

The  mayor  introduces  his  wife.  After  shaking  hands 
with  her  I  decide  that  it  is  all  a  conspiracy  to  introduce 
me  to  his  whole  family. 

"This  is  my  niece,  my  nephew,  his  wife,  their  children, 
my  father-in-law,"  and  dozens  of  others.  I  could  quite 
understand  why  he  was  the  mayor.  They  were  all  relatives. 
He  had  the  vote  of  the  city  tied  up  in  his  family  tree. 

The  whole  thing  is  bewildering  and  thrilling  and  I  find 
that  I  am  pleased  with  it  all. 

But  now  strange  faces  seem  to  fade  out  and  familiar  ones 
take  their  places.  There  is  Tom  Geraghty,  who  used  to 
be  Doug  Fairbanks's  scenario  writer.  He  wrote  "When  the 
Clouds  Roll  By"  and  "The  Mollycoddle."  Tom  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine  and  we  have  spent  many  a  pleasant  hour  in 
Doug's  home  in  Los  Angeles.  There  is  Donald  Crisp,  who 
played  Battling  Burrows  in  "Broken  Blossoms,"  a  club- 
mate  in  the  Los  Angeles  Athletic  Club.  My  cousin,  Aubrey 
Chaplin,  a  rather  dignified  gentleman,  but  with  all  the 
earmarks  of  a  Chaplin,  greets  me. 

Heavens!  I  look  something  like  him.  I  picture  myself 
in  another  five  years.  Aubrey  has  a  saloon  in  quite  a  respec- 
table part  of  London.  I  feel  that  Aubrey  is  a  nice  simple 
soul  and  quite  desirous  of  taking  me  in  hand. 

Then  Abe  Breman,  manager  of  the  United  Artists'  affairs 
in  England.  And  there  is  "Sonny,"  a  friend  in  the  days 
when  I  was  on  the  stage.  I  have  not  heard  from  him  in 
ten  years.  It  makes  me  happy  and  interested,  the  thought 
of  reviving  the  old  friendship. 

We  talk  of  all    sorts  of  subjects.     Sonny  is  prosperous 


HELLO!  ENGLAND  43 

and  doing  well.  He  tells  me  everything  in  jerky  asides,  as 
we  are  hustled  about  amidst  the  baggage  and  bundled  into 
a  compartment  that  somebody  has  arranged. 

Somehow  the  crowds  here  are  not  so  large  as  I  had  antici- 
pated. I  am  a  little  shocked.  What  if  they  don't  turn  up? 
Everyone  has  tried  to  impress  upon  me  the  size  of  the  recep- 
tion I  am  to  get.  There  is  a  tinge  of  disappointment,  but 
then  I  am  informed  that,  the  boat  being  a  day  late,  the 
crowd  expected  had  no  way  of  knowing  when  I  would 
arrive. 

This  explanation  relieves  me  tremendously,  though  it  is 
not  so  much  for  myself  that  I  feel  this,  but  for  my  com- 
panions and  my  friends,  who  expect  so  much.  I  feel  that 
the  whole  thing  should  go  off  with  a  bang  for  their  sake. 
Yes,  I  do. 

But  I  am  in  England.  There  is  freshness.  There  is  glow. 
There  is  nature  in  its  most  benevolent  mood.  The  trains, 
those  little  toy  trains  with  the  funny  little  wheels  like  those 
on  a  child's  toy.  There  are  strange  noises.  They  come 
from  the  engine — snorting,  explosive  sounds,  as  though  it 
was  clamoring  for  attention. 

I  am  in  another  world.  Southampton,  though  I  have 
been  there  before,  is  absolutely  strange  to  me.  There  is 
nothing  familiar.  I  feel  as  though  I  am  in  a  foreign  country. 
Crowds,  increasing  with  every  minute.  What  lovely  women, 
different  from  American  women.    How,  why,  I  cannot  tell. 

There  is  a  beautiful  girl  peering  at  me,  a  lovely  English 
type.  She  comes  to  the  carriage  and  in  a  beautiful,  musical 
voice  says,  "May  I  have  your  signature,  Mr.  Chaplin?" 
This  is  thrilling.  Aren't  English  girls  charming?  She  is 
just  the  type  you  see  in  pictures,  something  like  Hall  Caine's 
Gloria  in  The  Christian — beautiful  auburn  hair,  about 
seventeen. 

Seventeen !  What  an  age !  I  was  that  once — and  here,  in 
England.    It  seems  very  long  ago. 

Tom  Geraghty  and  the  bunch,  we  are  all  so  excited  we 
don't  know  just  what  to  do  or  how  to  act.     We  cannot 


44  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

collect  ourselves.  Bursting  with  pent-up  questions  of  years 
of  gathering,  overflowing  with  important  messages  for  one 
another,  we  are  talking  about  the  most  commonplace 
things.  I  find  that  I  am  not  listening  to  them,  nor  they 
to  me.    I  am  just  taking  it  all  in,  eyes  and  ears. 

An  English  "bobby."  Everything  is  different.  Taking 
the  tickets.  The  whole  thing  is  upside  down.  The  locking 
us  in  our  compartment.  I  look  at  the  crowds.  The  same 
old  "prop"  smile  is  working.  They  smile.  They  cheer. 
I  wave  my  hat.  I  feel  silly,  but  it  seems  that  they  like  it. 
Will  the  train  never  start  ?  I  want  to  see  something  outside 
the  station. 

I  want  to  see  the  country.  They  are  all  saying  things.  I 
do  not  know  what  they  all  think  of  me,  my  friends.  I  wish 
they  were  not  here.  I  would  love  to  be  alone  so  that  I  could 
get  it  all. 

We  are  moving.  I  sit  forward  as  though  to  make  the  train 
go  faster.  I  want  a  sight  of  Old  England.  I  want  more 
than  a  sight. 

Now  I  see  the  English  country.  New  houses  going  up 
everywhere.  New  types  for  laboring  men.  More  new 
houses.  I  have  never  seen  Old  England  in  such  a  frenzy  of 
building.  The  brush  fields  are  rather  burned  up.  This  is 
sc>mething  new  for  England,  for  it  is  always  so  green.  It 
is  not  as  green  as  it  used  to  be.  But  it  is  England,  and  I  am 
loving  every  mile  of  it. 

I  discover  that  everything  is  Los  Angeles  in  my  compart- 
ment, with  the  exception  of  my  cousin  and  Sonny.  Here  I 
am  in  the  midst  of  Hollywood.  I  have  traveled  six  thousand 
miles  to  get  away  from  Hollywood.  Motion  pictures  are 
universal.  You  can't  run  away  from  them.  But  I  am  not 
bothering  much,  because  I  am  cannily  figuring  on  shaking 
the  whole  lot  of  them  after  the  usual  dinner  and  getting  off 
by  myself. 

And  I  am  getting  new  thrills  every  minute.  There  are 
people  waiting  all  along  the  line,  at  small  stations,  waiting 
for  the  train  to  pass.     I  know  they  are  waiting  to  see  me. 


HELLO!  ENGLAND  45 

It's  a  wonderful  sensation — everybody  so  affectionate.  Gee ! 
I  am  wondering  what's  going  to  happen  in  London? 

Aubrey  and  the  bunch  are  talking  about  making  a  strong- 
arm  squad  around  me  for  protection.  I  intimately  feel  that 
it  is  not  going  to  be  necessary.  They  say:  "Ah,  you  don't 
know,  my  boy.    Wait  until  you  get  to  London." 

Secretly,  I  am  hoping  it  is  true.  But  I  have  my  doubts. 
Everybody  is  nice.  They  suggest  that  I  should  sleep  awhile, 
as  I  look  tired.  I  feel  that  I  am  being  pampered  and  spoiled. 
But  I  like  it.    And  they  all  seem  to  understand. 

My  cousin  interests  me.  He  warns  me  what  to  talk  about. 
At  first  I  felt  a  little  conscious  in  his  presence.  A  little  sen- 
sitive. His  personality — how  it  mixes  with  my  American 
friends.  I  sense  that  I  am  shocking  him  with  my  American 
points  of  view. 

He  has  not  seen  me  in  ten  years.  I  know  that  I  am  altered. 
I  sort  of  want  to  pose  before  him  a  little.  I  want  to  shock 
him;  no,  not  exactly  shock  him,  but  surprise  him.  I  find 
myself  deliberately  posing  and  just  for  him.  I  want  to  be 
different,  and  I  want  him  to  know  that  I  am  a  different 
person.    This  is  having  its  effect. 

Aubrey  is  bewildered.  I  am  sure  that  he  doesn't  know 
me.  I  feel  that  I  am  not  acting  according  to  his  schedule. 
It  encourages  me. 

I  become  radical  in  my  ideas.  Against  his  conservatism. 
But  I  am  beginning  not  to  like  this  performing  for  him. 
One  feels  so  conscious.  I  am  wondering  whether  he  will 
understand.  There  are  lots  of  other  people  I  have  got  to 
meet.  I  won't  be  able  to  devote  all  my  time  to  him.  I 
shall  have  a  long  talk  with  Aubrey  later  and  explain  every- 
thing.   I  doze  off  for  a  while. 

But  just  for  a  moment.  We  are  coming  to  the  outskirts 
of  London.  I  hear  nothing,  I  see  nothing,  but  I  know  it  is 
so  and  I  awake.  Now  I  am  all  expectancy.  We  are  entering 
the  suburbs  of  the  city. 


V 

I   ARRIVE    IN    LONDON 

LONDON !  There  are  familiar  buildings.  This  is  thrilling. 
The  same  buildings.  They  have  not  altered.  I  ex- 
pected that  England  would  be  altered.  It  isn't.  It's  the 
same.  The  same  as  I  left  it,  in  spite  of  the  war.  I  see  no 
change,  not  even  in  the  manner  of  the  people. 

There's  Dalton's  Potteries!  And  look,  there's  the  Queen's 
Head!  Public  house  that  my  cousin  used  to  own.  I  point 
it  out  to  him  decidedly,  but  he  reminds  me  that  he  has  a 
much  better  place  now.  Now  we  are  coming  into  the  cut. 
Can  it  be  true  ?  I  can  see  two  or  three  familiar  stores.  This 
train  is  going  too  fast.  I  want  more  time  with  these  dis- 
coveries. I  find  my  emotions  almost  too  much  for  me.  I 
have  more  sentiment  about  the  buildings  than  I  have  the 
people. 

The  recognition  of  these  localities!  There  is  a  lump 
rising  in  my  throat  from  somewhere.  It  is  something  inex- 
plicable.   They  are  there,  thank  God ! 

If  I  could  only  be  alone  with  it  all.  With  it  as  it  is,  and 
with  it  as  I  would  people  it  with  ghosts  of  yesterday.  I 
wish  these  people  weren't  in  the  compartment.  I  am  afraid 
of  my  emotions. 

The  dear  old  cut.  We  are  getting  into  it  now.  Here  we 
are.  There  are  all  conceivable  kinds  of  noises,  whistles, 
etc.  Crowds,  throngs  lined  up  on  the  platforms.  Here 
comes  a  police  sergeant  looking  for  a  culprit.  He  looks 
straight  at  me.  Good  Lord!  I  am  going  to  be  arrested! 
But  no,  he  smiles. 


I  ARRIVE  IN  LONDON  47 

A  shout,  "There  he  is!" 

Previous  to  this  we  had  made  resolutions.  ' '  Don't  forget 
we  are  all  to  lock  arms,  Knobloch,  my  cousin,  Robinson, 
Geraghty,  and  myself." 

Immediately  I  get  out  of  the  train,  however,  we  somehow 
get  disorganized  and  our  campaign  maneuver  is  lost.  Police- 
men take  me  by  each  arm.  There  are  motion-picture  men, 
still-camera  men.  I  see  a  sign  announcing  that  motion 
pictures  of  my  trip  on  board  ship  will  be  shown  that  night 
at  a  picture  theater.  That  dogged  photographer  of  the  boat 
must  have  gotten  something  in  spite  of  me. 

I  am  walking  along  quite  the  center  of  things.  I  feel  like 
royalty.  I  find  I  am  smiling.  A  regular  smile.  I  distinguish 
distant  faces  among  those  who  crowd  about  me.  There  are 
voices  at  the  end  of  the  platform. 

"Here  he  is.  He  is  there,  he  is.  That's  him."  My  step 
is  lightning  gay.  I  am  enjoying  each  moment.  I  am  in 
Waterloo  station,  London. 

The  policemen  are  very  excited.  It  is  going  to  be  a  ter- 
rible ordeal  for  them.  Thousands  are  outside.  This  also 
thrills  me.  Everything  is  beyond  my  expectations.  I  revel 
in  it  secretly.  They  all  stop  to  applaud  as  I  come  to  the 
gate.    Some  of  them  say : 

"Well  done,  Charlie."  I  wonder  if  they  mean  my  present 
stunt  between  the  bobbies.     It  is  too  much  for  me. 

What  have  I  done?  I  feel  like  a  cricketer  who  has  made 
a  hundred  and  is  going  to  the  stand.  There  is  real  warm 
affection.    Do  I  deserve  even  a  part  of  it? 

A  young  girl  rushes  out,  breaks  the  line,  makes  one  leap, 
and  smothers  me  with  a  kiss.  Thank  God,  she  is  pretty. 
There  seem  to  be  others  ready  to  follow  her,  and  I  find  my- 
self hesitating  a  bit  on  my  way.  It  is  a  signal.  The  barriers 
are  broken. 

They  are  coming  on  all  sides.  Policemen  are  elbowing 
and  pushing.    Girls  are  shrieking. 

"Charlie!  Charlie!  There  he  is!  Good  luck  to  you, 
Charlie.    God  bless  you."   Old  men,  old  women,  girls,  boys. 


48  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

all  in  one  excited  thrill.  My  friends  are  missing.  We  are 
fighting  our  way  through  the  crowd.  I  do  not  mind  it  at  all. 
I  am  being  carried  on  the  crest  of  a  wave.  Everybody  is 
working  but  me.  There  seems  to  be  no  effort.  I  am  enjoying 
it — lovely. 

Eventually  we  get  through  to  the  street.  It  is  worse 
here.  "Hooray!"  "Here  he  is!"  "Good  luck,  Charlie!" 
' '  Well  done,  Chariie ! "  "  God  bless  you.  God  love  you ! " 
"Good  luck,  Charlie!"  Bells  are  ringing.  Handkerchiefs 
are  waving.  Some  are  raising  their  hats.  I  have  lost  mine. 
I  am  bewildered,  at  a  loss,  wondering  where  it  is  all  leading 
to,  but  I  don't  care.    I  love  to  stay  in  it. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  terrific  crash.  Various  currents  of 
the  crowd  are  battling  against  one  another.  I  find  that  now 
I  am  concerned  about  my  friends.  Where's  Tom?  Where's 
So-and-so?  Where's  Carl?  Where's  my  cousin?  I'm  asking 
it  all  aloud,  on  all  sides,  of  anyone  who  will  listen  to  me. 
I  am  answered  with  smiles. 

I  am  being  pushed  toward  an  automobile. 

"Where's  my  cousin?"    Another  push. 

Policemen  on  all  sides.  I  am  pushed  and  lifted  and 
almost  dumped  into  the  limousine.  My  hat  is  thrown  in 
behind  me.  There  are  three  policemen  on  each  side  of  the 
car,  standing  on  the  running  board.  I  can't  get  out.  They 
are  telling  the  chauffeur  to  drive  on.  He  seems  to  be  driving 
right  over  the  people.  Occasionally  a  head,  a  smiling  face, 
a  hand,  a  hat  flashes  by  the  door  of  the  car.  I  ask  and  keep 
asking,  "Where's  my  cousin?" 

But  I  regain  myself,  straighten  my  clothes,  cool  off  a  bit, 
and  look  round.  There  is  a  perfect  stranger  in  the  limousine 
with  me.  I  seem  to  take  him  for  granted  for  the  moment. 
He  is  also  cut  up  and  bleeding.  Evidently  he  is  somebody. 
He  must  be  on  the  schedule  to  do  something.  He  looks 
bewildered  and  confused. 

I  say,  "Well — I  have  missed  my  cousin." 

He  says,  ' '  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  have  not  been  introduced 
to  .you." 


I  ARRIVE  IN  LONDON  49 

"Do  you  know  where  we  are  going?"  I  ask. 

He  says,  "No." 

"Well,  what  are  you  doing —    Who  are  you?"  1  splutter. 

"No  one  in  particular,"  he  answers.  "I  have  been  pushed 
in  here  against  my  will.  I  think  it  was  the  second  time  you 
cried  for  your  cousin.  One  of  the  cops  picked  me,  but  I 
don't  believe  there  is  any  relationship." 

We  laugh.  That  helps.  We  pull  up  and  he  is  politely 
let  off  at  the  corner.  As  quickly  as  possible  he  is  shut  out. 
Crowds  are  around  on  both  sides,  raising  their  hats  English 
fashion,  as  though  they  were  meeting  a  lady.  The  mounted 
policemen  leave  us.    I  am  left  alone  with  my  thoughts. 

If  I  could  only  do  something.  Solve  the  unemployment 
problem  or  make  some  grand  gesture,  in  answer  to  all  this. 
I  look  through  the  window  in  the  back  of  the  car.  There 
are  a  string  of  taxis  following  behind.  In  the  lead,  seated 
on  top  of  the  cab,  is  a  young  and  pretty  girl  all  dressed 
in  scarlet.  She  is  waving  to  me  as  she  chases.  What  a 
picture  she  makes!  I  think  what  good  fun  it  would  be 
to  get  on  top  of  the  cab  with  her  and  race  around  through 
the  country. 

I  feel  like  doing  something  big.  What  an  opportunity 
for  a  politician  to  say  something  and  do  something  big! 
I  never  felt  such  affection.  We  are  going  down  York  Road. 
I  see  placards,  "Charlie  Arrives."  Crowds  standing  on  the 
corner,  all  lined  up  along  my  way  to  the  hotel.  I  am  begin- 
ning to  wonder  what  it's  all  about. 

Am  feeling  a  bit  reflective,  after  all;  thinking  over  what 
I  have  done,  it  has  not  been  very  much.  Nothing  to  call 
forth  all  this.  "Shoulder  Arms"  was  pretty  good,  perhaps, 
but  all  this  clamor  over  a  moving-picture  actor! 

Now  we  are  passing  over  Westminster  Bridge.  There  are 
double-decked  street  cars.  There's  one  marked  "Kenn- 
ington." 

I  want  to  get  out  and  get  on  it — I  want  to  go  to  Kenn- 
ington.  The  bridge  is  so  small;  I  always  thought  it  was 
much  wider.    We  are  held  up  by  traffic.    The  driver  tells 


50  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

the  bobby  that  CharHe  ChapHn  is  inside.  There  is  a  change 
in  the  expression  of  the  cop. 

"On  your  way." 

By  this  time  the  policemen  have  dropped  off  the  side  of 
the  car  and  are  on  their  way  back.  Once  more  I  am  a  private 
citizen.  I  am  just  a  bit  sad  at  this.  Being  a  celebrity  has 
its  nice  points. 

There  is  an  auto  with  a  motion-picture  camera  on  top  of 
it  photographing  our  car.  I  tell  the  driver  to  put  down  the 
top.  Why  didn't  we  do  this  before?  I  wanted  to  let  the 
people  see.  It  seemed  a  shame  to  hide  in  this  way.  I  wanted 
to  be  seen.  There  are  little  crowds  on  the  street  corners 
again. 

Ah  yes,  and  Big  Ben.  It  looks  so  small  now.  It  was  so 
big  before  I  went  away.  We  are  turning  up  the  Haymarket. 
People  are  looking  and  waving  from  their  windows.  I  wave 
back.  Crowded  streets.  We  are  nearing  the  Ritz,  where  I 
am  to  stop. 

The  crowds  are  much  denser  here.  I  am  at  a  loss.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do,  what  to  say.  I  stand  up.  I  wave  and 
bow  at  them,  smile  at  them,  and  go  through  the  motions  of 
shaking  hands,  using  my  own  hands.  Should  I  say  some- 
thing? Can  I  say  anything?  I  feel  the  genuineness  of  it 
all,  a  real  warmth.  It  is  very  touching.  This  is  almost 
too  much  for  me.  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  make  a 
scene. 

I  stand  up.  The  crowd  comes  to  a  hush.  It  is  attentive. 
They  see  I  am  about  to  say  something.  I  am  surprised  at 
my  own  voice.  I  can  hear  it.  It  is  quite  clear  and  distinct, 
saying  something  about  its  being  a  great  moment,  etc.  But 
tame  and  stupid  as  it  is,  they  like  it. 

There  is  a  "  Hooray ! "    "  Good  boy,  Charlie ! " 

Now  the  problem  is  how  am  I  going  to  get  out  of  this? 
The  police  are  there,  pushing  and  shoving  people  aside  to 
make  way,  but  they  are  outnumbered.  There  are  motion- 
picture  cameras,  cameras  on  the  steps.  The  crowds  close 
in.     Then  I  step  out.     They  close  in.     I  am  still  smiling. 


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1  ARRIVE  IN  LONDON  51 

I  try  to  think  of  something  useful,  learned  from  my  experi- 
ence at  the  New  York  opening  of  "The  Three  Musketeers." 
But  I  am  not  much  help  to  my  comrades. 

Then  as  we  approach,  the  tide  comes  in  toward  the  gates 
of  the  hotel.  They  have  been  kept  locked  to  prevent  the 
crowd  from  demolishing  the  building.  I  can  see  one  intrepid 
motion-picture-camera  fan  at  the  door  as  the  crowd  starts 
to  swarm.  He  begins  to  edge  in,  and  starts  grinding  his 
camera  frantically  as  he  is  lifted  into  the  whirlpool  of  human- 
ity. But  he  keeps  turning,  and  his  camera  and  himself  are 
gradually  turned  up  to  the  sky,  and  his  lens  is  registering 
nothing  but  clouds  as  he  goes  down  turning — the  most  hon- 
orable fall  a  camera  man  can  have,  to  go  down  grinding.  I 
wonder  if  he  really  got  any  pictures. 

In  some  way  my  body  has  been  pushed,  carried,  lifted,  and 
projected  into  the  hotel.  I  can  assure  you  that  through  no 
action  of  mine  was  this  accomplished.  I  am  immediately 
introduced  to  some  English  nobleman.  The  air  is  electric. 
I  feel  now  I  am  free.  Everybody  is  smiling.  Everybody  is 
interested.    I  am  shown  to  a  suite  of  rooms. 

I  like  the  hotel  lobby.  It  is  grand.  I  am  raced  to  my  room. 
There  are  bouquets  of  flowers  from  two  or  three  English 
friends  whom  I  had  forgotten.  There  come  cards.  I  want  to 
welcome  them  all.  Do  not  mind  in  the  least.  Am  out  for 
the  whole  day  of  it.  The  crowds  are  outside.  The  manager 
presents  himself.  Everything  has  been  spread  to  make  my 
stay  as  happy  as  possible. 

The  crowd  outside  is  cheering.  What  is  the  thing  to  do? 
I  had  better  go  to  the  window.  I  raise  my  hands  again.  I 
pantomime,  shake  hands  with  myself,  throw  them  kisses. 
I  see  a  bouquet  of  roses  in  the  room.  I  grab  it  and  start 
tossing  the  flowers  into  the  crowd.  There  is  a  mad  scramble 
for  the  souvenirs.  In  a  moment  the  chief  of  police  bursts 
into  my  room. 

"Please,  Mr.  Chaplin,  it  is  very  fine,  but  don't  throw  any- 
thing. You  will  cause  an  accident.  They  will  be  crushed 
and  killed.    Anything  but  that,  don't  throw  anything.     If 


52  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

you  don't  mind,  kindly  refrain  from  throwing  anything." 
Excitedly  he  repeats  his  message  over  and  over  again. 

Of  course  I  don't  mind;  the  flowers  are  all  gone,  anyway. 
But  I  am  theatrically  concerned.  "Ah,  really  I  am  so  sorry. 
Has  anything  happened?"  I  feel  that  everything  is  all 
right. 

The  rest  of  my  friends  arrive  all  bruised  and  cut  up. 
Now  that  the  excitement  has  died  down,  what  are  we  going 
to  do  ?  For  no  reason  at  all  we  order  a  meal.  Nobody  is 
hungry.    I  want  to  get  out  again.    Wish  I  could. 

I  feel  that  everybody  ought  to  leave  immediately.  I  want 
to  be  alone.  I  want  to  get  out  and  escape  from  all  crowds. 
I  want  to  get  over  London,  over  to  Kennington,  all  by  my- 
self. I  want  to  see  some  familiar  sights.  Here  baskets  of 
fruit  keep  pouring  in,  fresh  bouquets,  presents,  trays  full  of 
cards,  some  of  them  titles,  some  well-known  names — all 
paying  their  respects.  Now  I  am  muddled.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  first.  There  is  too  much  waiting.  I  have  too 
much  of  a  choice. 

But  I  must  get  over  to  Kennington,  and  to-day.  I  am 
nervous,  overstrung,  tense.  Crowds  are  still  outside.  I 
must  go  again  and  bow  and  wave  my  hands.  I  am  used  to 
it,  am  doing  it  mechanically;  it  has  no  effect.  Lunch  is 
ordered  for  everybody.  Newspaper  men  are  outside,  visitors 
are  outside.  I  tell  Carl  to  get  them  to  put  it  off  until 
to-morrow.  He  tells  them  that  I  aim  tired,  need  a  rest, 
for  them  to  call  to-morrow  and  they  will  be  given  an 
interview. 

The  bishop  of  something  presents  his  compliments.  He 
is  in  the  room  when  I  arrive.  I  can't  hear  what  he  is  saying. 
I  say  yes,  I  shall  be  delighted.  We  sit  down  to  lunch.  What 
a  crowd  there  is  eating  with  me!  I  am  not  quite  sure  I 
know  them  all. 

Everyone  is  making  plans  for  me.  This  irritates  me.  My 
cousin,  Tom  Geraghty,  Knobloch — would  I  spend  two  or 
three  days  in  the  country  and  get  a  rest  ?  No.  I  don't  want 
to  rest.    Will  you  see  somebody?    I  don't  want  to  see  any- 


I  ARRIVE  IN  LONDON  53 

body.  I  want  to  be  left  entirely  alone.  I've  just  got  to 
have  my  whim. 

I  make  a  pretense  at  lunch.  I  whisper  to  Carl,  "You  ex- 
plain everything  to  them — tell  them  that  I  am  going  out 
immediately  after  lunch."  I  am  merely  taking  the  lunch  to 
discipline  myself. 

I  look  out  the  window.  The  crowds  are  still  there.  What 
a  problem !  How  am  I  going  to  get  out  without  being  recog- 
nized? Shall  I  openly  suggest  going  out,  so  I  can  get  away? 
I  hate  disappointing  them.    But  I  must  go  out. 

Tom  Geraghty,  Donald  Crisp,  and  myself  suggest  taking 
a  walk.  I  do  not  tell  them  my  plans,  merely  suggest  taking 
the  walk.  We  go  through  the  back  way  and  escape.  I  am 
sure  that  everything  is  all  right,  and  that  no  one  will  recog- 
nize me.  I  cannot  stand  the  strain  any  longer.  I  tell  Don- 
ald and  Tom — they  really  must  leave  me  alone.  I  want  to 
be  alone  and  want  to  visit  alone.  They  understand.  Tom 
is  a  good  sort  and  so  is  Donald.  I  do  not  want  to  ride,  but 
just  for  a  quicker  means  of  getting  away  I  call  a  taxicab. 

I  tell  him  to  drive  to  Lambeth.  He  is  a  good  driver,  and 
an  old  one.    He  has  not  recognized  me,  thank  heaven! 

But  he  is  going  too  fast.  I  tell  him  to  drive  slower,  to 
take  his  time.  I  sit  back  now.  I  am  passing  Westminster 
Bridge  again.  I  see  it  better.  Things  are  more  familiar. 
On  the  other  side  is  the  new  London  County  Council  Build- 
ing. They  have  been  building  it  for  years.  They  started 
it  before  I  left. 

The  Westminster  Road  has  become  very  dilapidated,  but 
perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  riding  in  an  automobile.  I  used 
to  travel  across  it  another  way.  It  doesn't  seem  so  long  ago, 
either. 

My  God!  Look!  Under  the  bridge!  There's  the  old 
blind  man.  I  stop  the  driver  and  drive  back.  We  pull  up 
outside  the  Canterbury. 

"You  wait  there,  or  do  you  want  me  to  pay  you  off?" 
He  will  wait.    I  walk  back. 

There  he  is,  the  same  old  figure,  the  same  olci  blind  man 


54  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

I  used  to  see  as  a  child  of  five,  with  the  same  old  earmuffs, 
with  his  back  against  the  wall  and  the  same  stream  of 
greasy  water  trickling  down  the  stone  behind  his  back. 

The  same  old  clothes,  a  bit  greener  with  age,  and  the 
irregular  bush  of  whiskers  colored  almost  in  a  rainbow 
array,  but  with  a  dirty  gray  predominant. 

What  a  symbol  from  which  to  count  the  years  that  I 
had  been  away.  A  little  more  green  to  his  clothes.  A  bit 
more  gray  in  his  matted  beard. 

He  has  that  same  stark  look  in  his  eyes  that  used  to  make 
me  sick  as  a  child.  Everything  exactly  the  same,  only  a  bit 
more  dilapidated. 

No.  There  is  a  change.  The  dirty  little  mat  for  the 
unhealthy-looking  pup  with  the  watering  eyes  that  used  to 
be  with  him — that  is  gone.  I  would  like  to  hear  the  story 
of  the  missing  pup. 

Did  its  passing  make  much  difference  to  the  lonely  derelict  ? 
Was  its  ending  a  tragic  one,  dramatic,  or  had  it  just  passed 
out  naturally? 

The  old  man  is  laboriously  reading  the  same  chapter  from 
his  old,  greasy,  and  bethumbed  embossed  bible.  His  lips 
move,  but  silently,  as  his  fingers  travel  over  the  letters.  I 
wonder  if  he  gets  comfort  there  ?    Or  does  he  need  comfort  ? 

To  me  it  is  all  too  horrible.  He  is  the  personification  of 
poverty  at  its  worst,  sunk  in  that  inertia  that  comes  of  lost 
hope.     It  is  too  terrible. 


VI 

THE    HAUNTS    OF    MY    CHILDHOOD 

r  JUMP  into  the  automobile  again  and  we  drive  along 
■■•  past  Christ  Church.  There's  Baxter  Hall,  where  we  used 
to  see  magic-lantern  slides  for  a  penny.  The  forerunner  of 
the  movie  of  to-day.  I  see  significance  in  everything  around 
me.  You  could  get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  piece  of  cake  there 
and  see  the  crucifixion  of  Christ  all  at  the  same  time. 

We  are  passing  the  police  station.  A  drear  place  to  youth. 
Kennington  Road  is  more  intimate.  It  has  grown  beautiful 
in  its  decay.    There  is  something  fascinating  about  it. 

Sleepy  people  seem  to  be  living  in  the  streets  more  than 
they  used  to  when  I  played  there.  Kennington  Baths,  the 
reason  for  many  a  day's  hookey.  You  could  go  swimming 
there,  second  class,  for  threepence  (if  you  brought  your  own 
swimming  trunks). 

Through  Brook  Street  to  the  upper  Bohemian  quarter, 
where  third-rate  music-hall  artists  appear.  All  the  same,  a 
little  more  decayed,  perhaps.  And  yet  it  is  not  just  the 
same. 

I  am  seeing  it  through  other  eyes.  Age  trying  to  look 
back  through  the  eyes  of  youth.  A  common  pursuit,  though 
a  futile  one. 

It  is  bringing  home  to  me  that  I  am  a  different  person. 
It  takes  the  form  of  art;  it  is  beautiful.  I  am  very  imper- 
sonal about  it.  It  is  another  world,  and  yet  in  it  I  recognize 
something,  as  though  in  a  dream. 

We   pass   the    Kennington    "pub,"    Kennington   Cross, 


56  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Chester  Street,  where  I  used  to  sleep.  The  same,  but,  Hke 
its  brother  landmarks,  a  bit  more  dilapidated.  There  is  the 
old  tub  outside  the  stables  where  I  used  to  wash.  The  same 
old  tub,  a  little  more  twisted. 

I  tell  the  driver  to  pull  up  again.  "Wait  a  moment."  I 
do  not  know  why,  but  I  want  to  get  out  and  walk.  An 
automobile  has  no  place  in  this  setting.  I  have  no  particu- 
lar place  to  go.  I  just  walk  along  down  Chester  Street. 
Children  are  playing,  lovely  children.  I  see  myself  among 
them  back  there  in  the  past.  I  wonder  if  any  of  them  will 
come  back  some  day  and  look  around  enviously  at  other 
children. 

Somehow  they  seem  different  from  those  children  with 
whom  I  used  to  play.  Sweeter,  more  dainty  were  these 
little,  begrimed  kids  with  their  arms  entwined  around  one 
another's  waists.  Others,  little  girls  mostly,  sitting  on  the 
doorsteps,  with  dolls,  with  sewing,  all  playing  at  that  uni- 
versal game  of  "mothers." 

For  some  reason  I  feel  choking  up.  As  I  pass  they  look 
up.  Frankly  and  without  embarrassment  they  look  at  the 
stranger  with  their  beautiful,  kindly  eyes.  They  smile  at 
me.  I  smile  back.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  do  something  for 
them.    These  waifs  with  scarcely  any  chance  at  all. 

Now  a  woman  passes  with  a  can  of  beer.  With  a  white 
skirt  hanging  down,  trailing  at  the  back.  She  treads  on  it. 
There,  she  has  done  it  again.  I  want  to  shriek  with  laughter 
at  the  joy  of  being  in  this  same  old  familiar  Kennington. 
I  love  it.    • 

It  is  all  so  soft,  so  musical;  there  is  so  much  affection  in 
the  voices.  They  seem  to  talk  from  their  souls.  There  are 
the  inflections  that  carry  meanings,  even  if  words  were  not 
understood.  I  think  of  Americans  and  myself.  Our  speech 
is  hard,  monotonous,  except  where  excitement  makes  it 
more  noisy. 

There  is  a  barber  shop  where  I  used  to  be  the  lather  boy. 
I  wonder  if  the  same  old  barber  is  still  there?  I  look.  No, 
he  is  gone.    I  see  two  or  three  kiddies  playing  on  the  porch. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD      57 

Foolishly,  I  give  them  something.  It  creates  attention.  I 
am  about  to  be  discovered. 

I  leap  into  the  taxi  again  and  ride  on.  We  drive  around 
until  I  have  escaped  from  the  neighborhood  where  suspicion 
has  been  planted  and  come  to  the  beginning  of  Lambeth 
Walk.     I  get  out  and  walk  along  among  the  crowds. 

People  are  shopping.  How  lovely  the  cockneys  are !  How 
romantic  the  figures,  how  sad,  how  fascinating!  Their 
lovely  eyes.  How  patient  they  are!  Nothing  conscious 
about  them.  No  affectation,  just  themselves,  their  beauti- 
fully gay  selves,  serene  in  their  limitations,  perfect  in  their 
type. 

I  am  the  wrong  note  in  this  picture  that  nature  has  con- 
centrated here.  My  clothes  are  a  bit  conspicuous  in  this 
setting,  no  matter  how  unobtrusive  my  thoughts  and  actions. 
Dressed  as  I  am,  one  never  strolls  along  Lambeth  Walk. 

I-  feel  the  attention  I  am  attracting.  I  put  my  handker- 
chief to  my  face.  People  are  looking  at  me,  at  first  slyly, 
then  insistently.  Who  am  I?  For  a  moment  I  am  caught 
unawares. 

A  girl  comes  up — thin,  narrow-chested,  but  with  an  eager- 
ness in  her  eyes  that  lifts  her  above  any  physical  defects. 

"Charlie,  don't  you  know  me?" 

Of  course  I  know  her.  She  is  all  excited,  out  of  breath. 
I  can  almost  feel  her  heart  thumping  with  emotion  as  her 
narrow  chest  heaves  with  her  hurried  breathing.  Her  face 
is  ghastly  white,  a  girl  about  twenty-eight.  She  has  a  little 
girl  with  her. 

This  girl  was  a  little  servant  girl  who  used  to  wait  on  us 
at  the  cheap  lodging  house  where  I  lived.  I  remembered 
that  she  had  left  in  disgrace.  There  was  tragedy  in  it.  But 
I  could  detect  a  certain  savage  gloriousness  in  her.  She  was 
carrying  on  with  all  odds  against  her.  Hers  is  the  supreme 
battle  of  our  age.  May  she  and  all  others  of  her  kind  meet  a 
kindly  fate. 

With  pent-up  feelings  we  talk  about  the  most  common- 
place things. 


SS  MY  TRIP  ABROAt) 

"Well,  how  are  you,  Charlie?" 

"Fine."  I  point  to  the  little  girl.  "Is  she  your  little 
girl?" 

She  says,  "Yes." 

That's  all,  but  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  need  of  con- 
versation. We  just  look  and  smile  at  each  other  and  we  both 
weave  the  other's  story  hurriedly  through  our  own  minds 
by  way  of  the  heart.  Perhaps  in  our  weaving  we  miss  a 
detail  or  two,  but  substantially  we  are  right.  There  is 
warmth  in  the  renewed  acquaintance.  I  feel  that  in  this 
moment  I  know  her  better  than  I  ever  did  in  the  many 
months  I  used  to  see  her  in  the  old  days.  And  right  now  I 
feel  that  she  is  worth  knowing. 

There's  a  crowd  gathering.  It's  come.  I  am  discovered, 
with  no  chance  for  escape.  I  give  the  girl  some  money  to 
buy  something  for  the  child,  and  hurry  on  my  way.  She 
understands  and  smiles.  Crowds  are  following.  I  am  dis- 
covered in  Lambeth  Walk. 

But  they  are  so  charming  about  it.  I  walk  along  and  they 
keep  behind  at  an  almost  standard  distance.  I  can  feel 
rather  than  hear  their  shuffling  footsteps  as  they  follow 
along,  getting  no  closer,  losing  no  ground.  It  reminds  me 
of  "The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin." 

All  these  people  just  about  five  yards  away,  all  timid, 
thrilled,  excited  at  hearing  my  name,  but  not  having  the 
courage  to  shout  it  under  this  spell. 

"There  he  is."  "That's  'im."  All  in  whispers  hoarse 
with  excitement  and  carrying  for  great  distance,  but  at  the 
same  time  repressed  by  the  effort  of  whispering.  What  man- 
ners these  cockneys  have!  The  crowds  accumulate.  I 
am  getting  very  much  concerned.  Sooner  or  later  they  are 
going  to  come  up,  and  I  am  alone,  defenseless.  What  folly 
this  going  out  alone,  and  along  Lambeth  Walk! 

Eventually  I  see  a  bobby,  a  sergeant — or,  rather,  I  think 
him  one,  he  looks  so  immaculate  in  his  uniform.  I  go  to 
him  for  protection. 

"Do  you  mind?"  I  say.    "I  find  I  have  been  discovered. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD       59 

I  am  Charlie  Chaplin.  Would  you  mind  seeing  me  to  a 
taxi?" 

"That's  all  right,  Charlie.  These  people  won't  hurt  you. 
They  are  the  best  people  in  the  world.  I  have  been  with  them 
for  fifteen  years."  He  speaks  with  a  conviction  that  makes 
me  feel  silly  and  deservedly  rebuked. 

I  say,  "I  know  it;  they  are  perfectly  charming." 

"That's  just  it,"  he  answers.  "They  are  charming  and 
nice." 

They  had  hesitated  to  break  in  upon  my  solitude,  but 
now,  sensing  that  I  have  protection,  they  speak  out. 

"Hello,  Charlie!"  "God  bless  you,  Charlie!"  "Good 
luck  to  you,  lad!"  As  each  flings  his  or  her  greetings  they 
smile  and  self-consciously  back  away  into  the  group,  bring- 
ing others  to  the  fore  for  their  greeting.  All  of  them  have  a 
word — old  women,  men,  children.  I  am  almost  overcome 
with  the  sincerity  of  their  welcome. 

We  are  moving  along  and  come  to  a  street  comer  and  into 
Kennington  Road  again.  The  crowds  continue  following  as 
though  I  were  their  leader,  with  nobody  daring  to  approach 
within  a  certain  radius.  The  little  cockney  children  circle 
around  me  to  get  a  view  from  all  sides. 

I  see  myself  among  them.  I,  too,  had  followed  celebrities 
in  my  time  in  Kennington.  I,  too,  had  pushed,  edged,  and 
fought  my  way  to  the  front  rank  of  crowds,  led  by  curiosity. 
They  are  in  rags,  the  same  rags,  only  more  ragged. 

They  are  looking  into  my  face  and  smiling,  showing  their 
blackened  teeth.  Good  God!  English  children's  teeth  are 
terrible!  Something  can  and  should  be  done  about  it.  But 
their  eyes. 

Soulful  eyes  with  such  a  wonderful  expression.  I  see  a 
young  girl  glance  slyly  at  her  beau.  What  a  beautiful  look 
she  gives  him!  I  find  myself  wondering  if  he  is  worthy,  if 
he  realizes  the  treasure  that  is  his.    What  a  lovely  people! 

We  are  waiting.  The  policeman  is  busy  hailing  a  taxi. 
I  just  stand  there  self-conscious.  Nobody  asks  any  ques- 
tions.   They  are  content  to  look.    Their  steadfast  watching 


6o  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

is  so  impressing.  I  feel  small — like  a  cheat.  This  worship 
does  not  belong  to  me.  God,  if  I  could  only  do  something 
for  all  of  them ! 

But  there  are  too  many — too  many.  Good  impulses  so 
often  die  before  this  "too  many." 

I  am  in  the  taxi. 

"Good-by,  Charlie!    God  bless  you!"    I  am  on  my  way. 

The  taxi  is  going  up  Kennington  Road  along  Kennington 
Park.  Kennington  Park.  How  depressing  Kennington 
Park  is!  How  depressing  to  me  are  all  parks!  The  loneli- 
ness of  them.  One  never  goes  to  a  park  unless  one  is  lone- 
some. And  lonesomeness  is  sad.  The  symbol  of  sadness, 
that's  a  park. 

But  I  am  fascinated  now  with  it.  I  am  lonesome  and  want 
to  be.  I  want  to  commune  with  myself  and  the  years  that 
are  gone.  The  years  that  were  passed  in  the  shadow  of  this 
same  Kennington  Park.  T  want  to  sit  on  its  benches  again 
in  spite  of  their  treacherous  bleakness,  in  spite  of  the 
drabness. 

But  I  am  in  a  taxi.  And  taxis  move  fast.  The  park  is 
out  of  sight.  Its  alluring  spell  is  dismissed  with  its  passing. 
I  did  not  sit  on  the  bench.  We  are  driving  toward  Kenning- 
ton Gate. 

Kennington  Gate.  That  has  its  memories.  Sad,  sweet, 
rapidly  recurring  memories. 

'Twas  here,  my  first  appointment  with  Hetty  (Sonny's 
sister).  How  I  was  dolled  up  in  niy  little,  tight-fitting  frock 
coat,  hat,  and  cane!  I  was  quite  the  dude  as  I  watched 
every  street  car  until  four  o'clock,  waiting  for  Hetty  to  step 
off,  smiling  as  she  saw  me  waiting. 

I  get  out  and  stand  there  for  a  few  moments  at  Kenning- 
ton Gate.  My  taxi  driver  thinks  I  am  mad.  But  I  am  for- 
getting taxi  drivers.  I  am  seeing  a  lad  of  nineteen,  dressed 
to  the  pink,  with  fluttering  heart,  waiting,  waiting  for  the 
moment  of  the  day  when  he  and  happiness  walked  along 
the  road.  The  road  is  so  alluring  now.  It  beckons  for 
another  walk,  and  as  I  hear  a  street  car  approaching  I  turn 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD        6i 

eagerly,  for  the  moment  almost  expecting  to  see  the  same 
trim  Hetty  step  off,  smiling. 

The  car  stops.  A  couple  of  men  get  off.  An  old  woman. 
Some  children.    But  no  Hetty. 

Hetty  is  gone.    So  is  the  lad  with  the  frock  coat  and  cane. 

Back  into  the  cab,  we  drive  up  Brixton  Road.  We  pass 
Glenshore  Mansions — a  more  prosperous  neighborhood. 
Glenshore  Mansions,  which  meant  a  step  upward  to  me, 
where  I  had  my  Turkish  carpets  and  my  red  lights  in  the 
beginning  of  my  prosperity. 

We  pull  up  at  the  Horns  for  a  drink.  The  same  Horns. 
Used  to  adjoin  the  saloon  bar.  It  has  changed.  Its  arrange- 
ment is  different.  I  do  not  recognize  the  keeper.  I  feel  very 
much  the  foreigner  now;  do  not  know  what  to  order.  I  am 
out  of  place.    There's  a  barmaid. 

How  strange,  this  lady  with  the  coiffured  hair  and  neat 
little  shirtwaist! 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?" 

I  am  swept  off  my  feet.  Impressed.  I  want  to  feel  very 
much  the  foreigner.    I  find  myself  acting. 

"What  have  you  got?" 

She  looks  surprised. 

' '  Ah,  give  me  ginger  beer. ' '  I  find  myself  becoming  a  little 
bit  affected.  I  refuse  to  understand  the  money — the  shill- 
ings and  the  pence.  It  is  thoroughly  explained  to  me  as 
each  piece  is  counted  before  me.  I  go  over  each  one  sepa- 
rately and  then  leave  it  all  on  the  table. 

There  are  two  women  seated  at  a  near-by  table.  One  is 
whispering  to  the  other.    I  am  recognized. 

"That's  'im;   I  tell  you  'tis." 

"Ah,  get  out!    And  wot  would  'e  be  a-doin'  'ere?" 

I  pretend  not  to  hear,  not  to  notice.  But  it  is  too  ominous. 
Suddenly  a  white  funk  comes  over  me  and  I  rush  out  and 
into  the  taxi  again.  It's  closing  time  for  a  part  of  the  after- 
noon. Something  different.  I  am  surprised.  It  makes  me 
think  it  is  Sunday.  Then  I  learn  that  it  is  a  new  rule  in 
effect  since  the  war. 


62  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

I  am  driving  down  Kennington  Road  again.  Passing 
Kennington  Cross. 

Kennington  Cross. 

It  was  here  that  I  first  discovered  music,  or  where  I  first 
learned  its  rare  beauty,  a  beauty  that  has  gladdened  and 
haunted  me  from  that  moment.  It  all  happened  one  night 
while  I  was  there,  about  midnight.  I  recall  the  whole  thing 
so  distinctly. 

I  was  just  a  boy,  and  its  beauty  was  like  some  sweet  mys- 
tery. I  did  not  understand.  I  only  knew  I  loved  it  and 
I  became  reverent  as  the  sounds  carried  themselves  through 
my  brain  via  my  heart. 

I  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  harmonica  and  a  clarinet 
playing  a  weird,  harmonious  message.  I  learned  later  that 
it  was  "The  Honeysuckle  and  the  Bee."  It  was  played 
with  such  feeling  that  I  became  conscious  for  the  first  time 
of  what  melody  really  was.    My  first  awakening  to  music. 

I  remembered  how  thrilled  I  was  as  the  sweet  sounds 
pealed  into  the  night.  I  learned  the  words  the  next  day. 
How  I  would  love  to  hear  it  now,  that  same  tune,  that  same 
way! 

Conscious  of  it,  yet  defiant,  I  find  myself  singing  the  re- 
frain softly  to  myself: 

"You  are  the  honey,  honeysuckle.     I  am  the  bee; 
I'd  like  to  sip  the  honey,  dear,  from  those  red  lips.     You  see     » 
I  love  you  dearie,  dearie,  and  I  want  you  to  love  me — 
You  are  my  honey,  honeysuckle.     I  am  your  bee." 

Kennington  Cross,  where  music  first  entered  my  soul. 
Trivial,  perhaps,  but  it  was  the  first  time. 

There  are  a  few  stragglers  left  as  I  pass  on  my  way  along 
Manchester  Bridge  at  the  Prince  Road.  They  are  still 
watching  me.  I  feel  that  Kennington  Road  is  alive  to  the 
fact  that  I  am  in  it.  I  am  hoping  that  they  are  feeling  that  I 
have  come  back,  not  that  I  am  a  stranger  in  the  public  eye. 

I  am  on  my  way  back.  Crossing  Westminster  Bridge.  I 
enter  a  new  land.  I  go  back  to  the  Hay  market,  back  to  the 
Ritz  to  dress  for  dinner. 


I  LOVE   DOGS 


VII 

A   JOKE    AND    STILL   ON   THE    GO 

IN  the  evening  I  dined  at  the  Ritz  with  Ed  Knobloch,  Miss 
Forrest,  and  several  other  friends.  The  party  was  a  very 
congenial  one  and  the  dinner  excellent.  It  did  much  to 
lift  me  from  the  depression  into  which  the  afternoon  in 
Kennington  had  put  me. 

Following  dinner  we  said  "Good  night"  to  Miss  Forrest, 
and  the  rest  of  us  went  around  to  Ed  Knobloch's  apartment 
in  the  Albany.  The  Albany  is  the  most  interesting  building 
I  have  yet  visited  in  London. 

In  a  sort  of  dignified  grandeui^  it  stands  swathed  in  an 
atmosphere  of  tradition.  It  breathes  the  past,  and  such  a 
past!  It  has  housed  men  like  Shelley  and  Edmund  Burke 
and  others  whose  fame  is  linked  closely  with  the  march  of 
English  civilization. 

Naturally,  the  building  is  very  old.  Ed's  apartment  com- 
mands a  wonderful  view  of  London.  It  is  beautifully  and 
artistically  furnished,  its  high  ceilings,  its  tapestries,  and  its 
old  Victorian  windows  giving  it  a  quaintness  rather  startling 
in  this  modern  age. 

We  had  a  bit  of  supper,  and  about  eleven-thirty  it  began 
to  rain,  and  later  there  was  a  considerable  thunderstorm. 

Conversation,  languishing  on  general  topics,  turns  to  me, 
the  what  and  wherefore  of  my  coming  and  going,  my  impres- 
sions, plans,  etc.    I  tell  them  as  best  I  can. 

Knobloch  is  anxious  to  get  my  views  on  England,  on  the 
impression  that  London  has  made.    We  discuss  the  matter 


64  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

and  make  comparisons.  I  feel  that  England  has  acquired  a 
sadness,  something  that  is  tragic  and  at  the  same  time 
beautiful. 

We  discuss  my  arrival.  How  wonderful  it  was.  The 
crowds,  the  reception.  Knobloch  thinks  that  it  is  the  apex 
of  my  career.    I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  him. 

Whereupon  Tom  Geraghty  comes  forward  with  a  startling 
thought.  Tom  suggests  that  I  die  immediately.  He  insists 
that  this  is  the  only  fitting  thing  to  do,  that  to  live  after 
such  a  reception  and  ovation  would  be  an  anticlimax.  The 
artistic  thing  to  do  would  be  to  finish  off  my  career  with  a 
spectacular  death. 

Tom  had  been  drinking,  thank  heaven.  But,  neverthe- 
less, everyone  is  shocked  at  his  suggestion.  But  I  agree 
with  Tom  that  it  would  be  a  great  climax.  We  are  all 
becoming  very  sentimental;  we  insist  to  one  another  that 
we  must  not  think  such  thoughts,  and  the  like. 

The  lightning  is  flashing  fitfully  outside.  Knobloch,  with 
an  inspiration,  gathers  all  of  us,  except  Tom  Geraghty,  into 
a  corner  and  suggests  that  on  the  next  flash  of  lightning,  just 
for  a  joke,  I  pretend  to  be  struck  dead,  to  see  what  effect  it 
would  have  on  Tom. 

We  make  elaborate  plans  rapidly.  Each  is  assigned  to  his 
part  in  the  impromptu  tragedy.  We  feed  Tom  another 
drink  and  start  to  talking  about  death  and  kindred  things. 
Then  we  all  comment  how  the  wind  is  shaking  this  old  build- 
ing, how  its  windows  rattle  and  the  weird  effect  that  light- 
ning has  on  its  old  tapestries  and  lonely  candlesticks.  Sur- 
reptitiously, some  one  has  turned  out  all  but  one  light,  but 
old  Tom  does  not  suspect. 

The  atmosphere  is  perfect  for  our  hoax  and  several  of  us 
who  are  "in  the  know"  feel  sort  of  creepy  as  we  wait  for 
the  next  flash.    I  prime  myself  for  the  bit  of  acting. 

The  flash  comes,  and  with  it  I  let  forth  a  horrible  shriek, 
then  stand  up,  stiffen,  and  fall  flat  on  my  face.  I  think  I 
did  it  rather  well,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  others  besides 
Tom  were  frightened. 


A  JOKE  AND  STILL  ON  THE  GO         65 

Tom  drops  his  whisky  glass  and  exclaims:  "My  God!  It's 
happened!"  and  his  voice  is  sober.  But  no  one  pays  any 
attention  to  him. 

They  all  rush  to  me  and  I  am  carried  feet  first  into  the 
bedroom,  and  the  door  closed  on  poor  old  Tom,  who  is  try- 
ing to  follow  me  in.  Tom  just  paces  the  floor,  waiting  for 
some  one  to  come  from  the  bedroom  and  tell  him  what  has 
happened.  He  knocks  on  the  door  several  times,  but  no 
one  will  let  him  in. 

Finally,  Carl  Robinson  comes  out  of  the  room,  looking 
seriously  intent,  and  Tom  rushes  to  him, 

"For  God's  sake,  Carl,  what's  wrong?" 

Carl  brushes  him  aside  and  makes  for  the  telephone. 

"Is  he — dead?"  Tom  puts  the  question  huskily  and 
fearfully. 

Carl  pays  no  attention  except:  "Please  don't  bother  me 
now,  Tom.  This  is  too  serious."  Then  he  calls  on  the 
telephone  for  the  coroner.  This  has  such  an  effect  on 
Geraghty  that  Knobloch  comes  forth  from  the  bedroom 
to  pacify  him. 

"I  am  sure  it  will  be  all  right,"  Knobloch  says  to  Tom,  at 
the  same  time  looking  as  though  he  were  trying  to  keep 
something  secret.  Everything  is  staged  perfectly  and  poor 
old  Tom  just  stands  and  looks  bewildered,  and  every  few 
moments  tries  to  break  into  the  bedroom,  but  is  told  to  stay 
out,  that  he  is  in  no  condition  to  be  mixing  up  in  anything 
so  serious. 

The  chief  of  police  is  called,  doctors  are  urged  to  rush 
there  in  all  haste  with  pulmotors,  and  with  each  call  Tom's 
suffering  increases.  We  keep  up  the  joke  until  it  has  reached 
the  point  of  artistry,  and  then  I  ente;r  from  the  bedroom  in 
a  flowing  sheet  for  a  gown  and  a  pillow  slip  on  each  arm  to 
represent  wings,  and  I  proceed  to  be  an  angel  for  a  moment. 

But  the  effect  has  been  too  great  on  Tom,  and  even  the 
travesty  at  the  finish  does  not  get  a  laugh  from  him.  But 
he  is  the  soberest  one  in  the  party  by  this  time. 

We  laughed  and  talked  about  the  stunt  for  a  while  and 


66  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Tom  was  asked  what  he  would  have  done  if  it  had  been  true 
and  I  had  been  hit  by  the  Hghtning. 

Tom  made  me  feel  very  cheap  and  sorry  that  I  had  played 
the  trick  on  him  when  he  said  that  he  would  have  jumped 
out  of  the  window  himself,  as  he  would  have  no  desire  to 
live  if  I  were  dead. 

But  we  soon  got  away  from  serious  things  and  ended  the 
party  merrily  and  went  home  about  five  in  the  morning. 
Which  meant  that  we  would  sleep  very  late  that  day. 

Three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  found  me  awakened  by 
the  news  that  there  was  a  delegation  of  reporters  waiting  to 
see  me.  They  were  all  ushered  in  and  the  whole  thirty -five 
of  them  started  firing  questions  at  me  in  a  bunch.  And  I 
answered  them  all,  for  by  this  time  I  was  quite  proficient 
with  reporters,  and  as  they  all  asked  the  same  questions 
that  I  had  answered  before  it  was  not  hard. 

In  fact,  we  all  had  luncheon  or  tea  together,  though  for 
me  it  was  breakfast,  and  I  enjoyed  them  immensely.  They 
are  real,  sincere,  and  intelligent,  and  not  hero  worshipers. 

Along  about  five  o'clock  Ed  Knobloch  came  in  with  the 
suggestion  that  we  go  out  for  a  ride  together  and  call  around 
to  see  Bernard  Shaw.  This  did  sound  like  a  real  treat. 
Knobloch  knows  Shaw  very  well  and  he  felt  sure  that  Shaw 
and  I  would  like  each  other. 

First,  though,  I  propose  that  we  take  a  ride  about  London, 
and  Ed  leads  the  way  to  some  very  interesting  spots,  the 
spots  that  the  tourist  rarely  sees  as  he  races  his  way  through 
the  buildings  listed  in  guide  books. 

He  takes  me  to  the  back  of  the  Strand  Theater,  where 
there  are  beautiful  gardens  and  courts  suggesting  palaces 
and  armor  and  the  days  when  knights  were  bold.  These 
houses  were  the  homes  of  private  people  during  the  reign  of 
King  Charles  and  even  farther  back.  They  abound  in  secret 
passages  and  tunnels  leading  up  to  the  royal  palace.  There 
is  an  air  about  them  that  is  aped  and  copied,  but  it  is  not 
hard  to  distinguish  the  real  from  the  imitation.  History  is 
written  on  every  stone;   not  the  history  of  the  battlefield 


A  JOKE  AND  STILL  ON  THE  GO  67 

that  is  laid  bare  for  the  historians,  but  that  more  intimate 
history,  that  of  the  drawing-room,  where,  after  all,  the  real 
ashes  of  empires  are  sifted. 

Now  we  are  in  Adelphia  Terrace,  where  Bernard  Shaw  and 
Sir  James  Barrie  live.  What  a  lovely  place  the  terrace  is! 
And  its  arches  underneath  leading  to  the  river.  And  at  this 
hour,  six-thirty,  there  comes  the  first  fall  of  evening  and 
London  with  its  soft  light  is  at  its  best. 

I  can  quite  understand  why  Whistler  was  so  crazy  about 
it.  Its  lighting  is  perfect — so  beautiful  and  soft.  Perhaps 
there  are  those  who  complain  that  it  is  poorly  lighted  and 
who  would  install  many  modem  torches  of  electricity  to 
remedy  the  defect,  but  give  me  London  as  it  is.  Do  not 
paint  the  lily. 

We  make  for  Shaw's  house,  which  overlooks  the  Thames 
Embankment.  As  we  approach  I  feel  that  this  is  a  momen- 
tous occasion.  I  am  to  meet  Shaw.  We  reach  the  house. 
I  notice  on  the  door  a  little  brass  name  plate  with  the  in- 
scription, "Bernard  Shaw."  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything 
significant  about  Shaw's  name  being  engraved  in  brass. 
The  thought  pleases  me.  But  we  are  here,  and  Knobloch  is 
about  to  lift  the  knocker. 

And  then  I  seem  to  remember  reading  somewhere  about 
dozens  of  movie  actors  going  abroad,  and  how  "they  invari- 
ably visited  Shaw.  Good  Lord !  the  man  must  be  weary  of 
them.  And  why  should  he  be  singled  out  and  imposed  upon  ? 
And  I  do  not  desire  to  ape  others.  And  I  want  to  be  indi- 
vidual and  different.  And  I  want  Bernard  Shaw  to  like  me. 
And  I  don't  want  to  force  myself  upon  hin;. 

And  all  this  is  occurring  very  rapidly,  and  I  am  getting 
fussed,  and  we  are  almost  before  him,  and  I  say  to  Knob- 
loch, "No,  I  don't  want  to  meet  him." 

Ed  is  annoyed  and  surprised  and  thinks  I  am  crazy  and 
everything.  He  asks  why,  and  I  suddenly  become  embar- 
rassed and  shy.  "Some  other  time,"  I  beg.  "We  won't 
call  to-day."  I  don't  know  why,  but  suddenly  I  feel  self- 
conscious  and  silly — 


68  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Would  I  care  to  see  Barrie?  He  lives  just  across  the 
road. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  see  any  of  them  to-day."  I  am  too 
tired.    I  find  that  it  would  be  too  much  effort. 

So  I  go  home,  after  drinking  in  all  the  beauties  of  the 
evening,  the  twilight,  and  the  loveliness  of  Adelphia  Ter- 
race. This  requires  no  effort.  I  can  just  drift  along  on  my 
own,  let  thoughts  come  and  go  as  they  will,  and  never  have 
to  think  about  being  polite  and  wondering  if  I  am  holding 
my  own  in  intelligent  discussion  that  is  sure  to  arise  when 
one  meets  great  minds.  I  wasted  the  evening  just  then. 
Some  other  time,  I  know,  I  am  going  to  want  Shaw  and 
Barrie. 

I  drift  along  with  the  sight  and  am  carried  back  a  hun- 
dred years,  two  hundred,  a  thousand.  I  seem  to  see  the 
ghosts  of  King  Charles  and  others  of  old  England  with  the 
tombstones  epitaphed  in  Old  English  and  dating  back  even 
to  the  eleventh  century. 

It  is  all  fragrant  and  too  fleeting.  We  must  get  back  to 
the  hotel  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Then  Knobloch,  Sonny,  Geraghty,  and  a  few  others  dine 
with  me  at  the  Embassy  Club,  but  Knobloch,  who  is  tired, 
leaves  after  dinner.  Along  about  ten  o'clock  Sonny,  Ger- 
aghty, Donald  Crist,  Carl  Robinson,  and  myself  decide  to 
take  a  ride.  We  make  toward  Lambeth,  I  want  to  show 
them  Lambeth.  I  feel  as  if  it  is  mine — a  choice  discovery 
and  possession  that  I  wish  to  display. 

I  recall  an  old  photographer's  shop  in  the  Westminster 
Bridge  Road  just  before  you  come  to  the  bridge.  I  want 
to  see  it  again.  We  get  out  there.  I  remember  having  seen 
a  picture  framed  in  that  window  when  I  was  a  boy — a  pic- 
ture of  Dan  Leno,  who  was  an  idol  of  mine  in  those  days. 

The  picture  was  still  there,  so  is  the  photographer — the 
name  "Sharp"  is  still  on  the  shop.  I  tell  my  friends  that 
I  had  my  picture  taken  here  about  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
we  went  inside  to  see  if  we  could  get  one  of  the  photos. 

"My  name  is  Chaplin,"  I  told  the  person  behind  the 


A  JOKE  AND  STILL  ON  THE  GO  69 

counter.  "You  photographed  me  fifteen  years  ago.  I  want 
to  buy  some  copies," 

"Oh,  we've  destroyed  the  negative  long  ago" ;  the  person 
behind  the  counter  thus  dismisses  me. 

"Have  you  destroyed  Mr.  Leno's  negative?"  I  ask  him. 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "but  Mr.  Leno  is  a  famous  come- 
dian." 

Such  is  fame.  Here  I  had  been  patting  myself  on  the  back, 
thinking  I  was  some  pumpkins  as  a  comedian,  and  my  nega- 
tive destroyed.  However,  there  is  balm  in  Gilead.  I  tell 
him  I  am  Charlie  Chaplin  and  he  wants  to  turn  the  place 
upside  down  to  get  some  new  pictures  of  me;  but  we  haven't 
the  time,  and,  besides,  I  want  to  get  out,  because  I  am  hear- 
ing suppressed  snickers  from  my  friends,  before  whom  I 
was  going  to  show  off. 


VIII 

A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON 

SO  we  wandered  along  through  South  London  by  Kenn- 
ington  Cross  and  Kennington  Gate,  Newington  Butts, 
Lambeth  Walk,  and  the  Clapham  Road,  and  all  through  the 
neighborhood.  Almost  every  step  brought  back  memories, 
most  of  them  of  a  tender  sort.  I  was  right  here  in  the 
midst  of  my  youth,  but  somehow  I  seemed  apart  from  it. 
I  felt  as  though  I  was  viewing  it  under  a  glass.  It  could  be 
seen  all  too  plainly,  but  when  I  reached  to  touch  it  it  was 
not  thei;e — only  the  glass  could  be  felt,  this  glass  that  had 
been  glazed  by  the  years  since  I  left. 

If  I  could  only  get  through  the  glass  and  touch  the  real 
live  thing  that  had  called  me  back  to  London.  But  I 
couldn't. 

A  man  cannot  go  back.  He  thinks  he  can,  but  other  things 
have  happened  to  his  life.  He  has  new  ideas,  new  friends, 
new  attachments.  He  doesn't  belong  to  his  past,  except 
that  the  past  has,  perhaps,  made  marks  on  him. 

My  friends  and  I  continue  our  stroll — a  stroll  so  pregnant 
with  interest  to  me  at  times  that  I  forget  that  I  have  com- 
pany and  wander  along  alone. 

Who  is  that  old  derelict  there  against  the  cart?  Another 
landmark.  I  look  at  him  closely.  He  is  the  same — only 
more  so.  Well  do  I  remember  him,  the  old  tomato  man. 
I  was  about  twelve  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  he  is  still  here 
in  the  same  old  spot,  plying  the  same  old  trade,  while  I — 

I  can  picture  him  as  he  first  appeared  to  me  standing 


A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON      71 

beside  his  round  cart  heaped  with  tomatoes,  his  greasy 
clothes  shiny  in  their  unkemptness,  the  rather  glassy  single 
eye  that  had  looked  from  one  side  of  his  face  staring  at 
nothing  in  particular,  but  giving  you  the  feeling  that  it  was 
seeing  all,  the  bottled  nose  with  the  network  of  veins  spell- 
ing dissipation. 

I  remember  how  I  used  to  stand  around  and  wait  for  him 
to  shout  his  wares.  His  method  never  varied.  There  was  a 
sudden  twitching  convulsion,  and  he  leaned  to  one  side, 
trying  to  straighten  out  the  other  as  he  did  so,  and  then, 
taking  into  his  one  good  lung  all  the  air  it  would  stand,  he 
would  let  forth  a  clattering,  gargling,  asthmatic,  high- 
pitched  wheeze,  a  series  of  sounds  which  defied  interpreta- 
tion. Somewhere  in  the  explosion  there  could  be  detected 
"ripe  tomatoes."    Any  other  part  of  his  message  was  lost. 

And  he  was  still  here.  Through  summer  suns  and  winter 
snows  he  had  stood  and  was  standing.  Only  a  bit  more 
decrepit,  a  bit  older,  more  dyspeptic,  his  clothes  greasier, 
his  shoulder  rounder,  his  one  eye  rather  filmy  and  not  so 
all-seeing  as  it  once  was.  And  I  waited.  But  he  did  not 
shout  his  wares  any  more.  Even  the  good  lung  was  failing. 
He  just  stood  there  inert  in  his  aging.  And  somehow  the 
tomatoes  did  not  look  so  good  as  they  once  were. 

We  get  into  a  cab  and  drive  back  toward  Brixton  to  the 
Elephant  and  Castle,  where  we  pull  up  at  a  coffee  store.  The 
same  old  London  coffee  store,  with  its  bad  coffee  and  tea. 

There  are  a  few  pink-cheeked  roues  around  and  a  couple 
of  old  derelicts.  Then  there  are  a  lot  of  painted  ladies, 
many  of  them  with  young  men  and  the  rest  of  them  looking 
for  young  men.  Some  of  the  young  fellows  are  minus  arms 
and  many  of  them  carry  various  ribbons  of  military  honor. 
They  are  living  and  eloquent  evidence  of  the  war  and  its 
effects.  There  are  a  number  of  stragglers.  The  whole  scene 
to  me  is  depressing.  What  a  sad  London  this  is!  People 
with  tired,  worn  faces  after  four  years  of  war ! 

Some  one  suggests  that  we  go  up  and  see  George  Fitz- 
maurice,  who  lives  in  Park  Lane.    There  we  can  get  a  drink 


72  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

and  then  go  to  bed.  We  jump  in  a  cab  and  are  soon  there. 
What  a  difference!  Park  Lane  is  another  world  after  the 
Elephant  and  Castle.  Here  are  the  homes  of  the  million- 
aires and  the  prosperous. 

Fitzmaurice  is  quite  a  successful  moving-picture  director. 
We  find  a  lot  of  friends  at  his  house,  and  over  whiskies-and- 
sodas  we  discuss  our  trip.  Our  trip  through  Kennington 
suggests  Limehouse  and  conversation  turns  toward  that  dis- 
trict and  Thomas  Burke. 

I  get  their  impressions  of  Limehouse.  It  is  not  as  tough 
as  it  has  been  pictured.  I  rather  lost  my  temper  through 
the  discussion. 

One  of  those  in  the  party,  an  actor,  spoke  very  sneeringly 
of  that  romantic  district  and  its  people. 

"Talk  about  Limehouse  nights.  I  thought  they  were 
tough  down  there.  Why,  they  are  like  a  lot  of  larks!"  said 
this  big-muscled  leading  man. 

And  then  he  tells  of  a  visit  to  the  Limehouse  district — a 
visit  made  solely  for  the  purpose  of  finding  trouble.  How 
he  had  read  of  the  tough  characters  there  and  how  he  had 
decided  to  go  down  to  find  out  how  tough  they  were. 

"I  went  right  down  there  into  their  joints,"  he  said,  "and 
told  them  that  I  was  looking  for  somebody  that  was  tough, 
the  tougher  the  better,  and  I  went  up  to  a  big  mandarin 
wearing  a  feather  and  said:  'Give  me  the  toughest  you've 
got.  You  fellows  are  supposed  to  be  tough  down  here,  so 
let's  see  how  tough  you  are.'  And  I  couldn't  get  a  rise  out 
of  any  of  them,"  he  concluded. 

This  was  enough  for  me.    It  annoyed. 

I  told  him  that  it  was  very  fine  for  well-fed,  overpaid 
actors  flaunting  toughness  at  these  deprived  people,  who  are 
gentle  and  nice  and,  if  ever  tough,  only  so  because  of  en- 
vironment. I  asked  him  just  how  tough  he  would  be  if  he 
were  living  the  life  that  some  of  these  unfortunate  families 
must  live.  How  easy  for  him,  with  five  meals  a  day  beneath 
that  thrust-out  chest  with  his  muscles  trained  and  perfect, 
trying  to  start  something  with  these  people.    Of  course  they 


A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON      73 

were  not  tough,  but  when  it  comes  to  four  years  of  war, 
when  it  comes  to  losing  an  arm  or  a  leg,  then  they  are  tough. 
But  they  are  not  going  around  looking  for  fights  unless  there 
is  a  reason. 

It  rather  broke  up  the  party,  but  I  was  feeling  so  dis- 
gusted that  I  did  not  care. 

We  meander  along,  walking  from  Park  Lane  to  the  Ritz. 

On  our  way  we  are  stopped  by  two  or  three  young  girls. 
They  are  stamped  plainly  and  there  is  no  subtlety  about 
their  "Hello  boys!  You  are  not  going  home  so  early?" 
They  salute  us.  We  wait  a  moment.  They  pause  and  then 
wave  their  hands  to  us  and  we  beckon  them. 

"How  is  it  you  are  up  so  late?"  They  are  plainly  em- 
barrassed at  this  question.  Perhaps  it  has  been  a  long  time 
since  they  were  given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  They  are 
not  just  sure  what  to  say.  We  are  different.  Their  usual 
method  of  attack  or  caress  does  not  seem  in  order,  so  they 
just  giggle. 

Here  is  life  in  its  elemental  rawness.  I  feel  very  kindly 
disposed  toward  them,  particularly  after  my  bout  with  the 
well-fed  actor  who  got  his  entertainment  from  the  frailties 
of  others.  But  it  is  rather  hard  for  us  to  mix.  There  is  a 
rather  awkward  silence. 

Then  one  of  the  girls  asks  if  we  have  a  cigarette.  Robin- 
son gives  them  a  package,  which  they  share  between  the 
three  of  them.  This  breaks  the  ice.  They  feel  easier.  The 
meeting  is  beginning  to  run  along  the  parliamentary  rules 
that  they  know. 

Do  we  know  where  they  can  get  a  drink  ? 

"No."  This  is  a  temporary  setback,  but  they  ask  if  we 
mind  their  walking  along  a  bit  with  us.  We  don't  and  we 
walk  along  toward  the  Ritz.  They  are  giggling,  and  before 
long  I  am  recognized.    They  are  embarrassed. 

They  look  down  at  their  shabby  little  feet  where  ill-fitting 
shoes  run  over  at  the  heels.  Their  cheap  little  cotton  suits 
class  them  even  low  in  their  profession,  though  their  youth 
is  a  big  factor  toward  their  potential  rise  when  they  have 


74  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

become  hardened  and  their  mental  faculties  have  become 
sharpened  in  their  eternal  battles  with  men.  Then  men  will 
come  to  them. 

Knowing  my  identity,  they  are  on  their  good  behavior. 
No  longer  are  we  prospects.  We  are  true  adventure  for 
them  this  night.  Their  intimacy  has  left  them  and  in  its 
place  there  appears  a  reserve  which  is  attractive  even  in  its 
awkwardness. 

The  conversation  becomes  somewhat  formal.  And  we 
are  nearing  the  hotel,  where  we  must  leave  them.  They  are 
very  nice  and  charming  now  and  are  as  timid  and  reserved 
as  though  they  had  just  left  a  convent. 

They  talk  haltingly  of  the  pictures  they  have  seen,  shyly 
telling  how  they  loved  me  in  "Shoulder  Arms,"  while  one 
of  them  told  how  she  wept  when  she  saw  ' '  The  Kid  "  and  how 
she  had  that  night  sent  some  money  home  to  a  little  kid 
brother  who  was  in  school  and  staying  there  through  her 
efforts  in  London. 

The  difference  in  them  seems  so  marked  when  they  call 
me  Mr.  Chaplin  and  I  recall  how  they  had  hailed  us  as 
"Hello,  boys."  Somehow  I  rather  resent  the  change.  I 
wish  they  would  be  more  intimate  in  their  conversation.  I 
would  like  to  get  their  viewpoint.  I  want  to  talk  to  them 
freely.  They  are  so  much  more  interesting  than  most  of 
the  people  I  meet. 

But  there  is  a  barrier.  Their  reserve  stays.  I  told  them 
that  I  was  sure  they  were  tired  and  gave  them  cab  fare. 

One  of  their  number  speaks  for  the  trio. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Chaplin,  very  much.  I  could  do  with  this, 
really.  I  was  broke,  honest.  Really,  this  comes  in  very 
handy." 

They  could  not  quite  understand  our  being  nice  and 
sympathetic. 

They  were  used  to  being  treated  in  the  jocular  way  of 
street  comradery.  Finer  qualities  came  forward  under  the 
respectful  attention  we  gave  them,  something  rather  nice 
that  had  been  buried  beneath  the  veneer  of  their  trade. 


A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON      75 

Their  thanks  are  profuse,  yet  awkward.  They  are  not 
used  to  giving  thanks.  They  usually  pay,  and  pay  dearly, 
for  anything  handed  them.  We  bid  them  "good  night." 
They  smile  and  walk  away. 

We  watch  them  for  a  bit  as  they  go  on  their  way.  At 
first  they  are  strolling  along,  chattering  about  their  adven- 
ture. Then,  as  if  on  a  signal,  they  straighten  up  as  though 
bracing  themselves,  and  with  quickened  steps  they  move 
toward  Piccadilly,  where  a  haze  of  light  is  reflected  against 
the  murky  sky. 

It  is  the  beacon  light  from  their  battleground,  and  as  we 
follow  them  with  our  eyes  these  butterflies  of  the  night 
make  for  the  lights  where  there  is  laughter  and  gayety. 

As  we  go  along  to  the  Ritz  we  are  all  sobered  by  the 
encounter  with  the  three  little  girls.  I  think  blessed  is  the 
ignorance  that  enables  them  to  go  on  without  the  mental 
torture  that  would  come  from  knowing  the  inevitable  that 
awaits  them. 

As  we  go  up  the  steps  of  the  hotel  we  see  a  number  of 
derelicts  huddled  asleep  against  the  outside  of  the  building, 
sitting  under  the  arches  and  doors,  men  and  women,  old  and 
young,  underfed,  deprived,  helpless,  so  much  so  that  the 
imprint  of  helplessness  is  woven  into  their  brain  and  brings 
on  an  unconsciousness  that  is  a  blessing. 

We  wake  them  up  and  hand  them  each  money.  "Here, 
get  yourself  a  bed." 

They  are  too  numbed.  They  thank  us  mechanically, 
accepting  what  we  give  them,  but  their  reaction  and  thanks 
are  more  physical  than  mental. 

There  was  one  old  woman  about  seventy.  I  gave  her 
something.  She  woke  up,  or  stirred  in  her  sleep,  took  the 
money  without  a  word  of  thanks — took  it  as  though  it  was 
her  ration  from  the  bread  line  and  no  thanks  were  expected, 
huddled  herself  up  in  a  tighter  knot  than  before,  and  con- 
tinued her  slumber.  The  inertia  of  poverty  had  long  since 
claimed  her. 

We  rang  the  night  bell  at  the  Ritz,  for  they  are  not  like 


76  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

our  American  hotels,  where  guests  are  in  the  habit  of 
coming  in  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  The  Ritz  closes  its 
doors  at  midnight,  and  after  that  hour  you  must  ring 
them. 

But  the  night  was  not  quite  over.  As  we  were  ringing  the 
bell  we  noticed  a  wagon  in  the  street  about  a  block  away, 
with  the  horse  slipping  and  the  driver  out  behind  the  wagon 
with  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  urging  the  horse  along 
with  cheery  words. 

We  walked  to  the  wagon  and  found  it  was  loaded  with 
apples  and  on  its  way  to  the  market.  The  streets  were  so 
slippery  that  the  horse  could  not  negotiate  the  hill.  I  could 
not  help  but  think  how  different  from  the  usual  driver  this 
man  was. 

He  did  not  belay  the  tired  animal  with  a  whip  and  curse 
and  swear  at  him  in  his  helplessness.  He  saw  that  the  animal 
was  up  against  it,  and  instead  of  beating  him  he  got  out  and 
put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  never  for  the  moment  doubt- 
ing that  the  horse  was  doing  his  best. 

We  all  went  out  into  the  street  and  put  our  shoulders 
against  the  wagon  along  with  the  driver.  He  thanked  us, 
and  as  we  finally  got  the  momentum  necessary  to  carry  it 
over  the  hill  he  said: 

"These  darn  roads  are  so  slippery  that  the  darn  horse 
even  can't  pull  it." 

It  was  a  source  of  wonder  to  him  that  he  should  come  upon 
something  too  much  for  his  horse.  And  the  horse  was  so 
well  fed  and  well  kept.  I  could  not  help  but  notice  how 
much  better  the  animal  looked  than  his  master.  The  eve- 
ning was  over  and  I  don't  know  but  that  the  incident  of  the 
apple  wagon  was  a  fitting  finale. 

The  next  morning  for  the  first  time  I  am  made  to  give  my 
attention  to  the  mail  that  has  been  arriving.  We  have  been 
obliged  to  have  another  room  added  to  our  suite  in  order  to 
have  some  place  in  which  to  keep  the  numerous  sacks  that 
are  being  brought  to  us  at  all  hours. 

The  pile  is  becoming  so  mountainous  that  we  are  com- 


A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON      77 

pelled  to  engage  half  a  dozen  stenographers  just  for  the  pur- 
pose of  reading  and  classifying  them. 

We  found  that  there  were  73,000  letters  or  cards  addressed 
to  me  during  the  first  three  days  in  London,  and  of  this 
number  more  than  28,000  were  begging  letters — letters 
begging  anywhere  from  £1  to  £100,000. 

Countless  and  varied  were  the  reasons  set  forth.  Some 
were  ridiculous.  Some  were  amusing.  Some  were  pathetic. 
Some  were  insulting.    All  of  them  in  earnest. 

I  discovered  from  the  mail  that  there  are  671  relatives  of 
mine  in  England  that  I  knew  nothing  about.  The  greater 
part  of  these  were  cousins  and  they  gave  very  detailed  family- 
tree  tracings  in  support  of  their  claims.  All  of  them  wished 
to  be  set  up  in  business  or  to  get  into  the  movies. 

But  the  cousins  did  not  have  a  monopoly  on  the  relation- 
ships. There  were  brothers  and  sisters  and  aunts  and  uncles 
and  there  were  nine  claiming  to  be  my  mother,  telling  won- 
drous adventure  stories  about  my  being  stolen  by  gypsies 
when  a  baby  or  being  left  on  doorsteps,  until  I  began  to 
think  my  youth  had  been  a  very  hectic  affair.  But  I  did 
not  worry  much  about  these  last,  as  I  had  left  a  perfectly 
good  mother  back  in  California,  and  so  far  I  have  been 
pretty  much  satisfied  with  her. 

There  were  letters  addressed  just  to  Charles  Chaplin, 
some  to  King  Charles,  some  to  the  "King  of  Mirth";  on 
some  there  was  drawn  the  picture  of  a  battered  derby; 
some  carried  a  reproduction  of  my  shoes  and  cane;  and  in 
some  there  was  stuck  a  white  feather  with  the  question  as 
to  what  I  was  doing  during  the  war. 

Would  I  visit  such  and  such  institutions  ?  Would  I  appear 
for  such  and  such  charity?  Would  I  kick  off  the  football 
season  or  attend  some  particular  socker  game?  Then  there 
were  letters  of  welcome  and  one  inclosing  an  iron  cross 
inscribed,  "For  your  services  in  the  great  war,"  and  "Where 
were  you  when  England  was  fighting?" 

Then  there  were  others  thanking  me  for  happiness  given 
the  senders.     These  came  by  the  thousand.     One  young 


78  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

soldier  sent  me  four  medals  he  had  gotten  during  the  big 
war.  He  said  that  he  was  sending  them  because  I  had  never 
been  properly  recognized.  His  part  was  so  small  and  mine 
so  big,  he  said,  that  he  wanted  me  to  have  his  Croix  de  Guerre, 
his  regimental  and  other  medals. 

Some  of  the  letters  were  most  interesting.  Here  are  a 
few  samples: 

Dear  Mr.  Chaplin, — You  are  a  leader  in  your  line  and  I  am  a  leader 
in  mine.  Your  specialty  is  moving  pictures  and  custard  pies.  My  specialty 
is  windmills. 

I  know  more  about  windmills  than  any  man  in  the  world.  I  have 
studied  the  winds  all  over  the  world  and  am  now  in  a  position  to  invent  a 
windmill  that  will  be  the  standard  mill  of  the  world,  and  it  will  be  made 
so  it  can  be  adapted  to  the  winds  of  the  tropics  and  the  winds  of  the 
arctic  regions. 

I  am  going  to  let  you  in  on  this  in  an  advantageous  way.  You  have 
only  to  furnish  the  money.  I  have  the  brains  and  in  a  few  years  I  will 
make  you  rich  and  famous.    You  had  better  phone  me  for  quick  action. 

Dear  Mr.  Chaplin, — Won't  you  please  let  me  have  enough  money 
to  send  little  Oscar  to  college?  Little  Oscar  is  twelve  and  the  neighbors  all 
say  that  he  is  the  brightest  little  boy  they  have  ever  seen.  And  he  can 
imitate  you  so  well  that  we  don't  have  to  go  to  the  movies  any  more. 
[This  is  dangerous.  Oscar  is  a  real  competitor,  ruining  my  business.] 
And  so  if  you  can't  send  the  little  fellow  to  college  won't  you  take  him  in 
the  movies  with  you  like  you  did  Jackie  Coogan? 

Dear  Mr.  Chaplin, — My  brother  is  a  sailor  and  he  is  the  only  man 
in  the  world  who  knows  where  Capt.  Kidd's  gold  is  buried.  He  has 
charts  and  maps  and  everything  necessary,  including  a  pick  and  shovel. 
But  he  cannot  pay  for  the  boat. 

Will  you  pay  for  the  boat  and  half  the  gold  is  yours.  All  you  need  do 
is  say  yes  to  me  in  a  letter  and  I  will  go  out  and  look  for  John  as  he  is  off 
somewhere  on  a  bat,  being  a  what  you  might  call  a  drinking  man  when 
ashore.  But  I  am  sure  that  I  can  find  him,  as  he  and  I  drink  in  the  same 
places.   Your  shipmate. 

Dear  Charlie, — Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  money  to  be  made  in 
peanuts?  I  know  the  peanut  industry,  but  I  am  not  telling  any  of  my 
business  in  a  letter.  If  you  are  interested  in  becoming  a  peanut  king, 
then  I'm  yotir  man.    Just  address  me  as  Snapper  Dodge,  above  address. 


A  MEMORABLE  NIGHT  IN  LONDON      79 

Dear  Mr.  Chaplin, — My  daughter  has  been  helping  me  about  my 
boarding  house  now  for  several  years,  and  I  may  say  that  she  understands 
the  art  of  catering  to  the  public  as  wishes  to  stay  in  quarters.  But  she 
has  such  high-toned  ideas,  like  as  putting  up  curtains  in  the  bathroom 
and  such  that  at  times  I  think  she  is  too  good  for  the  boarding  house 
business  and  should  be  having  her  own  hotel  to  run. 

If  you  could  see  your  way  to  buy  a  hotel  in  London  or  New  York  for 
Drusilla,  I  am  sure  that  before  long  your  name  and  Drusilla's  would  be 
linked  together  all  over  the  world  because  of  what  Drusilla  would  do  to 
the  hotel  business.  And  she  would  save  money  because  she  could  make 
all  the  beds  and  cook  herself  and  at  nights  could  invent  the  touches  like 
what  I  have  mentioned.    Drusilla  is  waiting  for  you  to  call  her. 

Dear  Mr.  Chaplin, — I  am  inclosing  pawn  checks  for  grandma's  false 
teeth  and  our  silver  water  pitcher,  also  a  rent  bill  showing  that  our  rent 
was  due  yesterday.  Of  course,  we  would  rather  have  you  pay  our  rent 
first,  but  if  you  could  spare  it,  grandma's  teeth  would  be  acceptable,  and 
we  can't  hold  our  heads  up  among  the  neighbors  since  father  hocked  our 
silver  pitcher  to  get  some  beer. 


IX 

I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS 

HERE  are  more  extracts  from  a  number  of  the  letters 
selected  at  random  from  the  mountain  of  mail  awaiting 
me  at  the  hotel: 

" wishes  Mr.  Chaplin  a  hearty  welcome  and  begs 

him  to  give  him  the  honor  of  shaving  him  on  Sunday, 
Sept.  II,  any  time  which  he  thinks  suitable." 

A  West  End  money  lender  has  forwarded  his  business 
card,  which  states:  "Should  you  require  temporary  cash 
accommodation,  I  am  prepared  to  advance  you  £50  to 
£10,000  on  note  of  hand  alone,  without  fees  or  delay.  All 
communications  strictly  private  and  confidential." 

A  man  living  in  Lexington  Street,  Goldensquare,  W., 
writes:  "My  son,  in  the  endeavor  to  get  a  flower  thrown 
by  you  from  the  Ritz  Hotel,  lost  his  hat,  the  bill  for  which 
I  inclose,  7  shillings  and  6  pence." 

A  Liverpool  scalp  specialist  gathers  that  Mr.  Chaplin 
is  much  concerned  regarding  the  appearance  of  gray  hairs 
in  his  head.  "I  claim  to  be,"  he  adds,  "the  only  man  in 
Britain  who  can  and  does  restore  the  color  of  gray  hair. 
You  may  visit  Liverpool,  and  if  you  will  call  I  shall  be 
pleased  to  examine  your  scalp  and  give  you  a  candid 
opinion.     If  nothing  can  be  done  I  will  state  so  frankly." 

' '  Is  there  any  chance,"  writes  Mrs.  Violet  Pain,  of  8  Angell- 
road,  Brixton,  "of  you  requiring  for  your  films  the  services 
of  twin  small  boys  nearly  four  years  old  and  nearly  indis- 
tinguishable?   An  American  agent  has  recently  been  in  this 


I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  8i 

neighborhood  and  secured  a  contract  with  two  such  small 
girls  (twins),  which  points  to  at  least  a  demand  for  such 
on  American  films." 

A  widow  of  62  writes:  "I  have  a  half  dozen  china  tea 
set  of  the  late  Queen  Victoria's  diamond  jubilee,  and  it 
occurred  to  me  that  you  might  like  to  possess  it.  If  you 
would  call  or  allow  me  to  take  it  anywhere  for  you  to  see, 
I  would  gladly  do  so.  I  have  had  it  twenty-four  years,  and 
would  like  to  raise  money  on  it." 

A  South  London  picture  dealer  writes:  "If  ever  you 
should  be  passing  this  way  when  you  are  taking  your  quiet 
strolls  around  London,  I  would  like  you  to  drop  in  and  see 
a  picture  that  I  think  might  interest  you.  It  is  the  Strand 
by  night,  painted  by  Arthur  Grimshaw  in  1887.  I  hope  you 
won't  think  I  have  taken  too  much  of  a  liberty — but  I 
knew  your  mother  when  I  was  in  Kate  Paradise's  troupe, 
and  I  think  she  would  remember  me  if  ever  you  were  to 
mention  Clara  Symonds  of  that  troupe.  It  is  a  little  link 
with  the  past." 

"  Dear  Old  Friend, — Some  months  ago  I  wrote  to  you 
and  no  doubt  you  will  remember  me.  I  was  in  'Casey's 
court,'  and,  as  you  know,  we  had  Mr.  Murray  for  our  boss. 
You  have  indeed  got  on  well.  I  myself  have  only  this  month 
come  home  from  being  in  Turkey  for  eight  years.  Dear  old 
boy,  I  should  like  to  see  you  when  you  come  to  London — 
that  is,  if  you  do  not  mind  mixing  with  one  of  the  Casey's 
court  urchins." 

A  Billingshurst  (Sussex)  mother  writes:  "Would  you 
grant  a  few  moments'  interview  to  a  little  girl  of  nine  (small 
for  her  years)  whom  I  am  anxious  to  start  on  the  films? 
She  has  much  in  her  favor,  being  not  only  bright  and  clever, 
but  unusually  attractive  in  appearance,  receiving  unlimited 
attention  wherever  she  goes,  as  she  is  really  quite  out  of 
the  ordinary." 

A  disengaged  actress  writes:  "If  you  should  take  a  film 
in  England  it  would  be  a  great  kindness  to  employ  some 
of  the  hundreds  of  actresses  out  of  work  now  and  with  no 


82  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

prospects  of  getting  any,  A  walk-on  would  be  a  very  wel- 
come change  to  many  of  us,  to  say  nothing  of  a  part." 

A  Bridgewater  resident  owning,  a  new  six-cylinder  car 
writes:  "A  friend  of  mine  has  a  very  old-time  spot  right 
here  in  Somerset,  with  the  peacocks  wandering  across  the 
well-kept  grounds  and  three  lovely  trout  ponds,  where  last 
night  I  brought  home  five  very  fine  rainbow  trout  each  weigh- 
ing about  one  and  a  half  pounds.  You  will  be  tired  of  the 
crowds.  Slip  away  down  to  me  and  I  will  give  you  ten  days 
or  more  of  the  best  time  you  can  get.  There  will  be  no  side 
or  style  and  your  oldest  clothes  will  be  the  thing." 

"My  husband  and  I  should  consider  it  an  honor  if  during 
your  visit  to  South  London  you  would  call  and  take  a  homely 
cup  of  tea  with  us.  I  read  in  the  paper  of  your  intention  to 
stay  at  an  old-fashioned  inn,  and  should  like  to  recommend 
the  White  Horse  inn  at  Sheen,  which,  I  believe,  is  the  oldest 
in  Surrey.  It  certainly  corresponds  with  your  ideal.  Wel- 
come to  your  home  town. — ^Jean  D.  Deschamps." 

"When  you  are  really  tired  of  the  rush  of  London  there 
is  a  very  nice  little  place  called  Seaford,  not  very  far  from 
London,  just  a  small  place  where  you  can  have  a  real  rest. 
No  dressing  up,  etc.,  and  then  fishing,  golf  and  tennis  if 
you  care  for  the  same.  You  could  put  up  at  an  hotel  or 
here.  There  will  be  no  one  to  worry  you.  Don't  forget 
to  drop  us  a  line.    Yours  sincerely,  E.  M.  W." 

A  London  clubman,  in  offering  hospitality,  says:  "I  do 
not  know  you.  You  do  not  know  me,  and  probably  don't 
want  to.  But  just  think  it  over  and  come  and  have  a  bit 
of  lunch  with,  me  one  day.  This  between  ourselves — no 
publicity." 

"Saint  Pancras  Municipal  Officers'  Swimming  Club  would 
be  greatly  honored  by  your  presiding  at  our  annual  swimming 
gala  to  be  held  at  the  St.  Pancras  public  baths." 

Dorothy  Cochrane,  Upper  North  Street,  Poplar,  asks: 
"Dear  Mr.  Charlie  Chaplin,  if  you  have  a  pair  of  old  boots 
at  home  will  you  throw  them  at  me  for  luck?" 

An  aspirant  for  the  position  of  secretary  writes:    "I  am 


I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  83 

a  musical  comedy  artist  by  profession,  but  am  at  present  out 
of  work.  I  am  six  feet  two  inches  in  height  and  27  years 
of  age.  If  there  is  any  capacity  in  which  you  can  use  my 
services  I  shall  be  very  thankful.  Hoping  you  will  have  an 
enjoyable  stay  in  your  home  country." 

A  Barnes  man  writes:  "If  you  have  time  we  should  be 
very  proud  if  you  could  spare  an  afternoon  to  come  to  tea. 
We  should  love  to  give  you  a  real  old-fashioned  Scotch  tea, 
if  you  would  care  to  come.  We  know  you  will  be  fdted, 
and  everyone  will  want  you,  but  if  you  feel  tired  and  want 
a  wee  rest  come  out  quietly  to  us.  If  it  wasn't  for  your 
dear  funny  ways  bn  the  screen  during  the  war  we  would 
all  have  gone  under." 

"Dear  Charles,"  writes  an  11 -year-old,  "I'd  like  to  meet 
you  very,  very  much.  I'd  like  to  meet  you  just  to  say  thank 
you  for  all  the  times  you've  cheered  me  up  when  I've  felt 
down  and  miserable.  I've. never  met  you  and  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  ever  will,  but  you  will  always  be  my  friend  and  helper. 
I'd  love  your  photograph  signed  by  you!  Are  you  likely 
to  come  to  Harrowgate?  I  wish  you  would.  Perhaps  you 
could  come  and  see  me.    Couldn't  you  try?" 

I  wish  I  could  read  them  all,  for  in  every  one  there  is 
human  feeling,  and  I  wish  it  were  possible  that  I  could 
accept  some  of  the  invitations,  especially  those  inviting  me 
to  quietness  and  solitude.  But  there  are  thousands  too 
many.  Most  of  them  will  have  to  be  answered  by  my  sec- 
retaries, but  all  of  them  will  be  answered,  and  we  are  taking 
trunkfuls  of  the  letters  back  to  California  in  order  that  as 
many  of  the  requests  as  possible  shall  receive  attention. 

During  the  afternoon  there  came  Donald  Crisp,  Tom 
Geraghty  and  the  bunch,  and  before  long  my  apartment 
in  the  London  Ritz  might  just  as  well  be  home  in  Los 
Angeles.  I  realize  that  I  am  getting  nowhere,  meeting 
nobody  and  still  playing  in  Hollywood. 

I  have  traveled  6,000  miles  and  find  I  have  not  shaken 
the  dust  of  Hollywood  from  my  shoes.  I  resent  this.  I  tell 
Knobloch  I  must  meet  other  people  besides  Geraghty  and 


84  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

the  Hollywood  bunch.  I  have  seen  as  much  as  I  want  to 
see  of  it.    Now  I  want  to  meet  people. 

Knobloch  smiles,  but  he  is  too  kind  to  remind  me  of  my 
retreat  before  the  name  plate  of  Bernard  Shaw.  He  and  I 
go  shopping  and  I  am  measured  for  some  clothes;  then  to 
lunch  with  E.  V.  Lucas. 

Lucas  is  the  editor  of  Punch,  England's  foremost  humorous 
publication.  A  very  charming  man,  sympathetic  and  sincere. 
He  has  writen  a  number  of  very  good  novels.  It  is  arranged 
to  give  me  a  party  that  night  at  the  Garrick  Club. 

After  luncheon  we  visit  StoU's  Theater,  where  "Shoulder 
Arms"  and  Mary  Pickford's  picture,  "Suds,"  are  being 
shown.  This  is  my  first  experience  in  an  English  cinema. 
The  opera  house  is  one  that  was  built  by  Steinhouse  and  then 
turned  into  a  movie  theater. 

It  is  strange  and  odd  to  see  the  English  audience  drinking 
tea  and  eating  pastry  while  watching  the  performance.  I 
find  very  little  difference  in  their  appreciation  of  the  picture. 
All  the  points  get  over  just  the  same  as  in  America.  I  get 
out  without  being  recognized  and  am  very  thankful  for  that. 

Back  to  the  hotel  and  rest  for  the  evening  before  my 
dinner  at  the  Garrick  Club. 

The  thought  of  dining  at  the  Garrick  Club  brought  up 
before  me  the  mental  picture  that  I  have  always  carried  of 
that  famous  old  meeting  place  in  London,  where  art  is  most 
dignified.  And  the  club  itself  reahzed  my  picture  to  the 
fullest. 

Tradition  and  custom  are  so  deep  rooted  there  that  I 
believe  its  routine  would  go  on  through  sheer  mechanics 
of  spirit,  even  if  its  various  employees  should  forget  to  show 
up  some  day.  The  corners  seem  almost  peopled  with  the 
ghosts  of  Henry  Irving  and  his  comrades.  There  is  one 
end  of  the  gloomy  old  room  is  a  chair  in  which  David  Gar- 
rick himself  sat. 

All  those  at  the  dinner  were  well  known  in  art  circles — 
E.  V.  Lucas,  Walter  Hackett,  George  Frampton,  J.  M. 
Barrie,  Herbert  Hammil,  Edward  Knobloch,  Harrv  Graham. 


I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  85 

N.  Nicholas,  Nicholas  D.  Davies,  Squire  Bancroft  and  a 
number  of  others  whose  names  I  do  not  remember. 

What  an  interesting  character  is  Squire  Bancroft.  I  am 
told  that  he  is  England's  oldest  living  actor,  and  he  is  now 
retired.    He  does  not  look  as  though  he  should  retire. 

I  am  late  and  that  adds  to  an  embarrassment  which  started 
as  soon  as  I  knew  I  was  to  meet  Barrie  and  so  many  other 
famous  people. 

There  is  Barrie.  He  is  pointed  out  to  me  just  about  the 
time  I  recognize  him  myself.  This  is  my  primary  reason 
for  coming.  To  meet  Barrie.  He  is  a  small  man,  with  a 
dark  mustache  and  a  deeply  marked,  sad  face,  with  heavily 
shadowed  eyes.  But  I  detect  lines  of  humor  lurking  around 
his  mouth.    Cynical?    Not  exactly. 

I  catch  his  eye  and  make  motions  for  us  to  sit  together, 
and  then  find  that  the  party  had  been  planned  that  way 
anyhow.  There  is  the  inevitable  hush  for  introductions. 
How  I  hate  it.  Names  are  the  bane  of  my  existence.  Per- 
sonalities, that's  the  thing. 

But  everyone  seems  jovial  except  Barrie.  His  eyes 
look  sad  and  tired.  But  he  brightens  as  though  all  along 
there  had  been  that  hidden  smile  behind  the  mask.  I 
wonder  if  they  are  all  friendly  toward  me,  or  if  I  am  just  the 
curiosity  of  the  moment. 

There  is  an  embarrassing  pause,  after  we  have  filed  into 
the  dining  room,  which  E.  V.  Lucas  breaks. 

' '  Gentlemen,  be  seated. ' ' 

I  felt  almost  like  a  minstrel  man  and  the  guests  took 
their  seats  as  simultaneously  as  though  rehearsed  for  it. 

I  feel  very  uncomfortable  mentally.  I  cough.  What 
shall  I  say  to  Barrie?  Why  hadn't  I  given  it  some  thought? 
I  am  aware  that  Squire  Bancroft  is  seated  at  my  other 
side.  I  feel  as  though  I  am  in  a  vise  with  its  jaws  closing 
as  the  clock  ticks.  Why  did  I  come?  The  atmosphere  is 
so  heavy,  yet  I  am  sure  they  all  feel  most  hospitable  toward 
me. 

I  steal  a  look  at  Squire  Bancroft.     The  old  tragedian 


86  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

looks  every  bit  the  eminent  old-school  actor.  The  dignity 
and  tradition  of  the  English  stage  is  written  into  every 
line  in  his  face.  I  remember  Nicholson  having  said  that  the 
squire  would  not  go  to  a  "movie,"  that  he  regarded  his 
stand  as  a  principle.  Then  why  is  he  here?  He  is  going 
to  be  difficult,  I  fear. 

He  breaks  the  ice  with  the  announcement  that  he  had 
been  to  a  movie  that  day !  Coming  from  him  it  was  almost 
a  shock. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  the  reading  of  the  letter  in  'Shoulder 
Arms*  was  the  high  spot  of  the  picture."  This  serious 
consideration  from  the  man  who  would  not  go  to  the 
movies. 

I  wanted  to  kiss  him.  Then  I  learn  that  he  had  told 
everyone  not  to  say  anything  about  his  not  having  been 
to  a  movie  for  fear  that  it  would  offend  me.  He  leans  over 
and  whispers  his  age  and  tells  me  he  is  the  oldest  member 
of  the  club.  He  doesn't  look  within  ten  years  of  his  age. 
I  find  myself  muttering  inanities  in  answering  him. 

Then  Barrie  tells  me  that  he  is  looking  for  some  one  to 
play  Peter  Pan  and  says  he  wants  me  to  play  it.  He  bowls 
me  over  completely.  To  think  that  I  was  avoiding  and  afraid 
to  meet  such  a  man!  But  I  am  afraid  to  discuss  it  with 
him  seriously,  am  on  my  guard  because  he  may  decide  that 
I  know  nothing  about  it  and  change  his  mind. 

Just  imagine,  Barrie  has  asked  me  to  play  Peter  Pan.  It 
is  too  big  and  grand  to  risk  spoiling  it  by  some  chance  wit- 
less observation,  so  I  change  the  subject  and  let  this  golden 
opportunity  pass.  I  have  failed  completely  in  my  first 
skirmish  with  Barrie. 

There  are  labored  jokes  going  the  rounds  of  the  table  and 
everyone  seems  to  feel  conscious  of  some  duty  that  is  resting 
on  his  shoulders  imgracefuUy. 

One  ruddy  gentleman  whose  occupation  is  a  most  serious 
one,  I  am  told,  that  of  building  a  giant  memorial  in  White 
Hall  to  the  dead  of  the  late  war,  is  reacting  to  the  situation 
most  flippantly.     His  conversation,  which   has  risen  to  a 


1  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  87 

pitch  of  almost  hysterical  volume,  is  most  ridiculously  comic. 
He  is  a  delightful  buffoon. 

Everyone  is  laughing  at  his  chatter,  but  nothing  seems 
to  be  penetrating  my  stupidity,  though  I  am  carrying  with 
me  a  wide  mechanical  grin,  which  I  broaden  and  narrow 
with  the  nuances  of  the  table  laughing.  I  feel  utterly 
out  of  the  picture,  that  I  don't  belong,  that  there  must 
be  something  significant  in  the  badinage  that  is  bandied 
about  the  board. 

Barrie  is  speaking  again  about  moving  pictures.  I  must 
understand.  I  summon  all  of  my  scattered  faculties  to  bear 
upon  what  he  is  saying.  What  a  peculiarly  shaped  head 
he  has. 

He  is  speaking  of  "The  Kid,"  and  I  feel  that  he  is  trying 
to  flatter  me.  But  how  he  does  it!  He  is  criticizing  the 
picture. 

He  is  very  severe.  He  declares  that  the  "heaven"  scene 
was  entirely  unnecessary,  and  why  did  I  give  it  so  much 
attention  ?  And  why  so  much  of  the  mother  in  the  picture, 
and  why  the  meeting  of  the  mother  and  the  father?  All  of 
these  things  he  is  discussing  analytically  and  profoundly, 
so  much  so  that  I  find  that  my  feeling  of  self-consciousness 
is  rapidly  leaving  me. 

I  find  myself  giving  my  side  of  the  argument  without 
hesitation,  because  I  am  not  so  sure  that  Barrie  is  right, 
and  I  had  reasons,  good  reasons,  for  wanting  all  those  things 
in  the  picture.  But  I  am  thrilled  at  his  interest  and  ap- 
preciation and  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  by  discussing 
dramatic  construction  with  me  he  is  paying  a  very  gracious 
and  subtle  compliment.  It  is  sweet  of  him.  It  relieves  me 
of  the  last  vestige  of  my  embarrassment. 

"But,  Sir  James,"  I  am  saying,  "I  cannot  agree  with 
you — "  Imagine  the  metamorphosis.  And  our  discussion 
continues  easily  and  pleasantly.  I  am  aware  of  his  age  as 
he  talks  and  I  get  more  of  his  spirit  of  whimsicality. 

The  food  is  being  served  and  I  find  that  E.  V.  Lucas  has 
provided  a  treacle  pudding,  a  particular  weakness  of  mine, 


88  .  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

to  which  I  do  justice.     I  am  wondering  if  Barrie  resents 
age,  he  who  is  so  youthful  in  spirit. 

There  seems  to  be  lots  of  fun  in  the  general  buffoonery 
that  is  going  on  around  the  table,  but  despite  all  efforts  to 
the  contrary  I  am  serving  a  diet  of  silence.  I  feel  very  color- 
less, that  the  whole  conversation  that  is  being  shouted  is 
colorless. 

I  am  a  good  audience.  I  laugh  at  anything  and  dare  not 
speak.  Why  can't  I  be  witty?  Are  they  trying  to  draw 
me  out?  Is  it  phony?  Maybe  I  am  wrong  and  there  is  a 
purpose  behind  this  buffoonery.  But  I  hardly  know  whether 
to  retaliate  in  kind,  or  just  grin. 

I  am  dying  for  something  to  happen.  Lucas  is  rising. 
We  all  feel  the  tension.    Why  are  parties  like  that  ?    It  ends. 

Barrie  is  whispering,  "Let's  go  to  my  apartment  for  a 
drink  and  a  quiet  talk,"  and  I  begin  to  feel  that  things  are 
most  worth  while.  Knobloch  and  I  walk  with  him  to 
Adelphia  Terrace,  where  his  apartment  overlooks  the 
Thames  Embankment. 

Somehow  this  apartment  seems  just  like  him,  but  I  cannot 
convey  the  resemblance  in  a  description  of  it.  The  first 
thing  you  see  is  a  writing  desk  in  a  huge  room  beautifully 
furnished,  and  with  dark-wood  paneling.  Simplicity  and 
comfort  are  written  everywhere.  There  is  a  large  Dutch 
fireplace  in  the  right  side  of  the  room,  but  the  outstanding 
piece  of  furniture  is  a  tiny  kitchen  stove  in  one  comer.  It 
is  polished  to  such  a  point  that  it  takes  the  aspect  of  the 
ornamental  rather  than  the  useful.  He  explains  that  on 
this  he  makes  his  tea  when  servants  are  away.  Such  a  touch, 
perhaps,  just  the  touch  to  suggest  Barrie. 

Our  talk  drifts  to  the  movies  and  Barrie  tells  me  of  the 
plans  for  filming  "Peter  Pan."  We  are  on  very  friendly 
ground  in  this  discussion  and  I  find  myself  giving  Barrie 
ideas  for  plays  while  he  is  giving  me  ideas  for  movies, 
many  of  them  suggestions  that  I  can  use  in  comedies.  It 
is  a  great  chatfest. 

There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.     Gerald  du  Maurier  is 


I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  89 

calling.  He  is  one  of  England's  greatest  actors  and  the  son 
of  the  man  who  wrote  "Trilby."  Our  party  lasts  far  into 
the  night,  until  about  three  in  the  morning.  I  notice  that 
Barrie  looks  rather  tired  and  worn,  so  we  leave,  walking 
with  Du  Maurier  up  the  Strand.  He  tells  us  that  Barrie  is 
not  himself  since  his  nephew  was  drowned,  that  he  has  aged 
considerably. 

We  walk  slowly  back  to  the  hotel  and  to  bed. 

Next  day  there  is  a  card  from  Bruce  Bairnsfather, 
England's  famous  cartoonist,  whose  work  during  the  war 
brought  him  international  success,  inviting  me  to  tea.  He 
carries  me  out  into  the  country,  where  I  have  a  lovely  time. 
His  wife  tells  me  that  he  is  just  a  bundle  of  nerves  and  that 
he  never  knows  when  to  stop  working.  I  ask  what  H.  G. 
Wells  is  like  and  Bruce  tells  me  that  he  is  like  "Wells" 
and  no  one  else. 

When  I  get  back  to  the  hotel  there  is  a  letter  from  Wells. 

"Do  come  over.  I've  just  discovered  that  you  are  in 
town.  Do  you  want  to  meet  Shaw  ?  He  is  really  very  charm- 
ing out  of  the  limelight.  I  suppose  you  are  overwhelmed 
with  invitations,  but  if  there  is  a  chance  to  get  hold  of  you 
for  a  talk,  I  will  be  charmed.  How  about  a  week-end 
with  me  at  Easton,  free  from  publicity  and  with  harmless, 
human  people.    No  phones  in  the  house." 

I  lost  no  time  in  accepting  such  an  invitation. 

There  is  a  big  luncheon  party  on  among  my  friends  and 
I  am  told  that  a  party  has  been  arranged  to  go  through 
the  Limehouse  district  with  Thomas  Burke,  who  wrote 
"Limehouse  Nights."  I  resent  it  exceedingly  and  refuse  to 
go  with  a  crowd  to  meet  Burke.  I  revolt  against  the  con- 
stant crowding.    I  hate  crowds. 

London  and  its  experiences  are  telling  on  me  and  I  am 
nervous  and  unstrung.  I  must  see  Burke  and  go  with  him 
alone.  He  is  the  one  man  who  sees  London  through  the  same 
kind  of  glasses  as  myself.  I  am  told  that  Burke  will  be 
disappointing  because  he  is  so  silent,  but  I  do  not  believe 
that  I  will  be  disappointed  in  him. 


90  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Robinson  tells  the  crowd  of  my  feelings  and  how  much 
I  have  planned  on  this  night  alone  with  Burke,  and  the  party 
is  called  off.  We  phone  Burke  and  I  make  an  engagement 
to  meet  him  at  his  home  that  evening  at  ten  o'clock.  We 
are  to  spend  the  night  together  in  Limehouse.  What  a 
prospect ! 

That  night  I  was  at  Thomas  Burke's  ahead  of  time.  The 
prospect  of  a  night  spent  in  the  Limehouse  district  with  the 
author  of  "Limehouse  Nights"  was  as  alluring  as  Christmas 
morning  to  a  child. 

Burke  is  so  different  from  what  I  expected.  '  *  Limehouse 
Nights"  had  led  me  to  look  for  some  one  physically,  as  well 
as  mentally,  big,  though  I  had  always  pictured  him  as 
mild-mannered  and  tremendously  human  and  sympathetic. 

I  notice  even  as  we  are  introduced  that  Burke  looks  tired 
and  it  is  hard  to  think  that  this  little  man  with  the  thin, 
peaked  face  and  sensitive  features  is  the  same  one  who  has 
blazed  into  literature  such  elemental  lusts,  passions  and 
emotions  as  characterize  his  short  stories. 

I  am  told  that  he  doesn't  give  out  much.  I  wonder  just 
who  he  is  like.  He  is  very  curious.  Doesn't  seem  to  be 
noticing  anything  that  goes  on  about  him.  He  just  sits 
with  his  arm  to  his  face,  leaning  on  his  hand  and  gazing 
into  the  fire.  As  he  sits  there,  apparently  unperturbed 
and  indifferent,  I  am  warming  up  to  him  considerably.  I 
feel  a  sort  of  master  of  the  situation.  It's  a  comfortable 
feeling.  Is  his  reticence  real  or  is  this  some  wonderful 
trick  of  his,  this  making  his  guest  feel  superior? 

His  tired-looking,  sensitive  eyes  at  first  seem  rather  severe 
and  serious,  but  suddenly  I  am  aware  of  something  keen, 
quick  and  twinkling  in  them.  His  wife  has  arrived.  A 
very  young  lady  of  great  charm,  who  makes  you  feel  in- 
stantly her  artistic  capabilities  even  in  ordinary  conver- 
sation. 

Shortly  after  his  wife  comes  in  Burke  and  I  leave,  I 
feeling  very  much  the  tourist  in  the  hands  of  the  supercity 
guide. 


I  MEET  THE  IMMORTALS  91 

"What,  where — anything  particular  that  I  want  to  see?" 

This  rather  scares  me,  but  I  take  it  as  a  challenge  and 
make  up  my  mind  that  I  will  know  him.  He  is  difficult, 
and,  somehow,  I  don't  believe  that  he  cares  for  movie  actors. 
Maybe  I  am  only  possible  copy  to  him? 

He  seems  to  be  doing  me  a  kindness  and  I  find  myself 
feeling  rather  stiff  and  on  my  best  behavior,  but  I  resolve 
that  before  the  evening  is  through  I  will  make  him  open  up 
and  like  me,  for  I  am  sure  that  his  interest  is  well  worth 
while. 

I  have  nothing  to  suggest  except  that  we  ramble  along 
with  nothing  deliberate  in  view.  I  feel  that  this  pleases 
him,  for  a  light  of  interest  comes  into  his  eyes,  chasing  one 
of  responsibility.    We  are  just  going  to  stroll  along. 

8 


X 

I  MEET  THOMAS  BURKE  AND  H.  G.  WELLS 

AS  Burke  and  I  ramble  along  toward  no  place  in 
particular,  I  talk  about  his  book.  I  have  read  "Lime- 
house  Nights"  as  he  wrote  it.  There  is  nothing  I  could 
see  half  so  effective.  We  discuss  the  fact  that  realities 
such  as  he  has  kept  alive  seldom  happen  in  a  stroll,  but 
I  am  satisfied.  I  don't  want  to  see.  It  could  not  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  book.  There  is  no  reaction  to  my 
flattery.     I  must  watch  good  taste. 

Passing  up  my  obvious  back-patting,  I  feel  that  he  is 
very  intelligent,  and  I  am  silent  for  quite  a  while  as  we 
stroll  along  toward  Stepney.  There  is  a  greenish  mist  hang- 
ing about  everything  and  we  seem  to  be  in  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  alleyways,  now  turning  into  streets  and  then  merging 
into  squares.    He  is  silent  and  we  merely  walk. 

And  then  I  awaken.  I  see  his  purpose.  I  can  do  my  own 
story — he  is  merely  lending  me  the  tools.  And  what  tools 
they  are!  I  feel  that  I  have  served  an  ample  apprentice- 
ship in  their  use,  through  merely  reading  his  stories.  I 
am  fortified. 

It  is  so  easy  now.  He  has  given  me  the  stories  before. 
Now  he  is  telling  them  over  in  pictures.  The  very  shadows 
take  on  life  and  romance.  The  skulking,  strutting,  mincing, 
hurrying  forms  that  pass  us  and  fade  out  into  the  night 
are  now  becoming  characters.  The  curtain  has  risen  on 
"Limehouse  Nights,"  dramatized  with  the  original  cast. 

There  is  a  tang  of  the  east  in  the  air  and  I  am  tinglingly 


MEETING  BURKE  AND  WELLS  93 

aware  of  something  vital,  living,  moving,  in  this  murky- 
atmosphere  that  is  more  intense  even  for  the  occasional  dim 
light  that  peers  out  into  the  soft  gloom  from  attic  windows 
and  storerooms,  or  municipal  lights  that  gleam  on  the  street 
corners'. 

Here  is  a  little  slice  of  God's  fashioning,  where  love  runs 
hand  in  hand  with  death,  where  poetry  sings  in  withered 
Mongolian  hearts,  even  as  knives  are  buried  in  snow-white 
breasts  and  swarthy  necks.  ~  Here  hearts  are  broken  cas- 
ually, but  at  the  same  time  there  comes  just  as  often  to  this 
lotus  land  the  pity,  terror,  and  wonder  of  first  love,  and  who 
shall  say  which  is  predominant  ? 

Behind  each  of  those  tiny  garret  windows  lurks  life — life 
in  its  most  elemental  costume.  There  is  no  time,  thought, 
or  preparation  for  anything  but  the  elemental  passions,  and 
songs  of  joy,  hope,  and  laughter  are  written  into  each  exist- 
ence, even  as  the  killings  go  on,  surely,  swiftly. 

There  must  be  a  magic  wand  forever  doing  a  pendulum 
swing  over  this  land,  for  the  point  of  view  often  changes  from 
the  beastly  to  the  beautiful,  and  in  one  short  moment  the 
innocent  frequently  gather  the  sophistication  of  the  aged. 
These  creatures  of  life's  game  run  blithely  along  their  course, 
ignorant  of  the  past,  joyful  in  the  present,  and  careless  of 
the  future,  while  their  tiny  lightened  windows  seem  to  wink 
deliberately  as  they  make  pinpricks  of  light  through  the 
shuttered  gloom. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  there  is  stepping  a  little 
lady  whose  cheap  cotton  clothes  are  cut  with  Parisian  cun- 
ning, and  as  we  cross  and  pass  her  we  discern  beauty,  en- 
hanced many  fold  by  youth  and  vitality,  but  hardened  with 
premature  knowledge.  I  can't  help  but  think  of  little  Gracie 
Goodnight,  the  little  lady  who  resented  the  touch  of  a 
"Chink,"  so  much  so  that  she  filled  the  fire  extinguishers 
in  his  place  with  oil,  and  when  he  was  trapped  in  the  blazing 
building,  calmly,  and  with  a  baby  smile  upon  her  face, 
poured  the  contents  of  the  extinguisher  over  him  and  his 
furniture. 


94  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

There  is  the  Queen's  Theater,  bringing  forward  a  mental 
picture  of  Httle  Gina  of  Chinatown,  who  stopped  a  panic 
in  the  fire-frightened  audience  of  the  playhouse  as  her  debut 
offering  on  the  stage.  Little  Gina,  who  brought  the  whole 
neighborhood  to  her  feet  in  her  joyous  dancing  delight. 
Little  Gina,  who  at  fourteen  had  lived,  laughed,  and  loved, 
and  who  met  death  with  a  smile,  carrying  the  secret  of  him 
with  her. 

Every  once  in  a  while  Burke  merely  lifts  his  stick  and 
points.  His  gesture  needs  no  comment.  He  has  located 
and  made  clear  without  language  the  only  one  object  he 
could  possibly  mean,  and,  strangely,  it  is  always  something 
particularly  interesting  to  me.     He  is  most  unusual. 

What  a  guide  he  is!  He  is  not  showing  rne  Main  Street, 
not  the  obvious,  not  even  the  sight-seer's  landmarks,  but  in 
this  rambling  I  am  getting  the  heart,  the  soul,  the  feeling. 
I  feel  that  he  has  gauged  me  quickly — that  he  knows  I  love 
feelings  rather  than  details,  that  he  is  unconsciously  flatter- 
ing to  my  subtlety,  after  two  miles  through  black,  though 
lovely,  shadows. 

Now  he  is  picking  the  spots  where  lights  are  shining  from 
the  fish  shops.  He  knows  their  locations,  knows  their  lights 
because  he  has  studied  them  well.  There  are  forms  slinking 
gracefully,  as  though  on  location  and  with  rehearsed  move- 
ment.   What  an  effect  for  a  camera! 

This  is  rugged.  Here  are  'the  robust  of  the  slums.  People 
act  more  quickly  here  than  in  Lambeth.  And  suddenly  we 
are  back  where  we  started.  In  a  car  we  go  to  Huxton,  the 
old  Britannia  Huxton,  rather  reluctantly. 

There  is  a  glaring  moving-picture  palace.  What  a  pity! 
I  resent  its  obtrusion.  We  go  along  toward  the  East  Indian 
Rocks — to  Shadwell.  And  I  am  feeling  creepy  with  the 
horror  of  his  stories  of  Shadwell.  I  could  hear  a  child 
screaming  behind  a  shuttered  window  and  I  wondered  and 
imagined,  but  we  did  not  stop  anywhere. 

We  meandered  along  with  just  an  occasional  gesture  from 
him,  all  that  was  necessary  to  make  his  point.    To  Stanhope 


MEETING  BURKE  AND  WELLS  95 

Road  and  Highgate,  Bethnal  Green,  Spitalfields,  RatcHffe, 
Soho,  Nottingdale,  and  Camdentown. 

And  through  it  all  I  have  the  feeling  that  things  trivial, 
portentous,  beautiful,  sordid,  cringing,  glorious,  simple, 
epochal,  hateful,  lovable  things,  are  happening  behind  closed 
doors.  I  people  all  those  shacks  with  girls,  boys,  murders, 
shrieks,  life,  beauty. 

As  we  go  back  to  Highgate  we  talk  of  life  in  the  world 
outside  this  adventurous  Utopia.  He  tells  me  that  he  has 
never  been  outside  of  London,  not  even  to  Paris.  This  is 
very  curious  to  me,  but  it  doesn't  seenvso  as  he  says  it.  He 
tells  me  of  another  book  that  he  has  ready  and  of  a  play 
that  he  is  working  on  for  early  production.  We  talked  until 
three  in  the  morning  and  I  went  back  to  my  hotel  with  the 
same  sort  of  feelings  that  I  had  at  twelve  when  I  sat  up  all 
night  reading  Stevenson's  Treasure  Island. 

The  next  day  I  did  some  shopping,  going  through  the 
Burlington  Arcade,  where  I  was  measured  for  boots.  How 
different  is  shopping  here!  A  graceful  ceremony  that  is 
pleasing  even  to  a  man.  The  sole  advertisement  I  see  in 
the  shop  is  "Patrons  to  His  Majesty."  It  is  all  said  in  that 
one  phrase. 

And  the  same  methods  have  been  in  vogue  at  this  boot- 
maker's for  centuries.  My  foot  is  placed  on  a  piece  of 
paper  and  the  outline  drawn.  Then  measurements  are  taken 
of  the  instep,  ankle  and  calf,  as  I  want  riding  boots.  Old- 
fashioned  they  will  probably  continue  until  the  end  of  time, 
yet  somehow  I  sort  of  felt  that  if  that  old  shop  had  a  tongue 
to  put  in  its  cheek,  there  it  would  be  parked,  because  tradi- 
tion, as  an  aid  to  the  cash  register,  is  no  novelty. 

In  the  evening  I  dined  at  the  Embassy  Club  with  Sonny, 
and  was  made  an  honorary  member  of  the  club. 

It  is  amazing  how  much  Europe  is  aping  America,  par- 
ticularly with  its  dance  music.  In  cafes  you  hear  all  the 
popular  airs  that  are  being  played  on  Broadway.  The 
American  influence  has  been  felt  to  such  an  extent  that 
King  Jazz  is  a  imiversal  potentate.    Sonny  and  I  go  to  the 


96  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

theater  and  see  a  part  of  the  "League  of  Notions,"  but  we 
leave  early  and  I  run  in  to  say  hello  to  Constance  Collier, 
who  is  playing  in  London. 

The  next  day  is  exciting.  Through  the  invitation  of  a 
third  party  I  am  to  meet  H.  G.  Wells  at  Stoll's  office  to  view 
the  first  showing  of  Wells's  picture,  "Mr.  Kipps." 

In  the  morning  the  telephone  rings  and  I  hear  some  one 
in  the  parlor  say  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  is  calling.  I  get 
in  a  blue  funk,  as  does  everyone  else  in  the  apartment, 
and  I  hear  them  rush  toward  the  phone.  But  Ed  Knobloch, 
claiming  to  be  versed  in  the  proper  method  of  handling  such 
a  situation,  convinces  everyone  that  he  is  the  one  to  do  the 
talking  and  I  relapse  back  into  bed,  but  wider  awake  than 
I  ever  was  in  my  life. 

Knobloch  on  the  phone: 

"Are  you  there?  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  to-night.  .  .  . 
Thank  you." 

Kjiobloch  turning  from  the  phone  announces,  very  for- 
mally, "The  Prince  of  Wales  wishes  Charlie  to  dine  with  him 
to-night, ' '  and  he  starts  toward  my  bedroom  door.  (Through 
all  of  this  I  have  been  in  the  bedroom,  and  the  others  are  in 
the  parlor  confident,  with  the  confidence  of  custom,  that  I 
am  still  asleep.) 

As  Knobloch  starts  for  my  bedroom  door  my  very  Amer- 
ican secretary,  in  the  very  routine  voice  he  has  trained  for 
such  occurrences,  says: 

"Don't  wake  him.  Tell  him  to  call  later.  Not  before 
two  o'clock." 

Knobloch :  *  *  Good  God,  man !  This  is  the  Prince  of  Wales, ' ' 
and  he  launches  into  a  monologue  regarding  the  traditions 
of  England  and  the  customs  of  court  and  what  a  momentous 
occasion  this  is,  contemptuously  observing  that  I  am  in 
bed  and  my  secretary  wants  him  to  tell  the  Prince  to  call 
later!    He  cannot  get  the  American  viewpoint. 

Knobloch's  sincere  indignation  wins,  and  the  secretary 
backs  away  from  the  bedroom  as  I  plunge  under  the  covers 
and  feign  sleep.     Ejtiobloch  comes  in  very  dignified  and, 


MEETING  BURKE  AND  WELLS  97 

trying  to  keep  his  voice  in  the  most  casual  tone,  announces, 
"Keep  to-night  open  to  dine  with  the  Prince  of  Wales." 

I  try  to  enter  into  it  properly,  but  I  feel  rather  stiff  so 
early  in  the  morning.  I  try  to  remonstrate  with  him  for 
having  made  the  engagement.  I  have  another  engagement 
with  H.  G.  Wells,  but  I  am  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  dining 
with  the  Prince  in  Buckingham  Palace.  I  can't  do  it.  What 
must  I  do? 

Knobloch  takes  me  in  hand.  He  repeats  the  message. 
I  think  some  one  is  spoofing  and  tell  him  so.  I  am  very 
suspicious,  and  the  thrill  leaves  me  as  I  remember  that  the 
Prince  is  in  Scotland,  shooting.    How  could  he  get  back? 

But  Knobloch  is  practical.  This  must  go  through.  And 
I  think  he  is  a  bit  sore  at  me  for  my  lack  of  appreciation. 
He  would  go  to  the  palace  himself  and  find  out  everything. 
He  goes  to  the  palace  to  verify. 

I  can't  tell  his  part  of  it^ — he  was  very  vague — but  I 
gathered  that  when  he  reached  there  he  found  all  the  fur- 
niture under  covers,  and  I  can  hear  that  butler  now  saying : 

' '  His  Highness  the  Prince  will  not  be  back  for  several  days, 
sir. 

Poor  Ed !  It  was  quite  a  blow  for  him,  and,  on  the  level, 
I  was  a  bit  disappointed  myself. 

But  I  lost  no  time  mooning  over  my  lost  chance  to  dine 
with  royalty,  for  that  afternoon  I  was  going  to  rneet  Wells. 
Going  to  Stoll's,  I  was  eagerly  looking  forward  to  a  quiet 
little  party  where  I  could  get  off  somewhere  with  Wells  and 
have  a  long  talk. 

As  I  drew  near  the  office,  however,  I  noticed  crowds, 
the  same  sort  of  crowds  that  I  had  been  dodging  since  my 
exit  from  Los  Angeles.  It  was  a  dense  mass  of  humanity 
packed  around  the  entire  front  of  the  building,  waiting  for 
something  that  had  been  promised  them.  And  then  I  knew 
that  it  was  an  arranged  affair  and  that,  so  far  as  a  chat  was 
concerned,  Wells  and  I  were  just  among  those  present,  even 
though  we  were  the  guests  of  honor. 

I  remember  keenly  the  crush  in  the  elevator,  a  tiny  little 


98  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

affair  built  for  about  six  people  and  carrying  nearer  sixty. 
I  get  the  viewpoint  of  a  sardine  quite  easily.  Upstairs  it 
is  not  so  bad,  and  I  am  swept  into  a  room  where  there  are 
only  a  few  people,  and  the  door  is  then  closed.  I  look  all 
around,  trying  to  spot  Wells.    There  he  is. 

I  notice  his  beautiful,  dark-blue  eyes  first.  Keen  and 
kindly  they  are,  twinkling  just  now  as  though  he  were  in- 
wardly smiling,  perhaps  at  my  very  apparent  embarrassment. 

Before  we  can  get  together,  however,  there  comes  forward 
the  camera  brigade  with  its  flashlight  ammunition.  Would 
we  pose  together  ?  Wells  looks  hopeless.  I  must  show  that 
before  cameras  I  am  very  much  of  a  person,  and  I  take  the 
initiative  with  the  lens  peepers. 

We  are  photoed,  sitting,  standing,  hats  on  and  off,  and 
in  every  other  stereotyped  position  known  to  camera  men. 

We  sign  a  number  of  photos,  I  in  my  large,  .sweeping, 
sprawling  hand — I  remember  handling  the  pen  in  a  dashing, 
swashbuckling  manner — ^then  Wells,  in  his  small,  hardly 
discernible  style.  I  am  very  conscious  of  this  difference, 
and  I  feel  as  though  I  had  started  to  sing  aloud  before  a 
group  of  grand-opera  stars. 

Then  there  is  a  quick-sketch  artist  for  whom  we  pose. 
He  does  his  work  rapidly,  however,  and  while  he  is  drawing 
Wells  leans  over  and  whispers  in  my  ear. 

"We  are  the  goats,"  he  tells  me.  "I  was  invited  here  to 
meet  you  and  you  were  probably  invited  here  to  meet  me." 

He  had  called  the  turn  perfectly,  and  when  we  had  both 
accepted  the  invitation  our  double  acceptance  had  been  used 
to  make  the  showing  an  important  event.  I  don't  think  that 
Wells  liked  it. 

Wells  and  I  go  into  the  dark  projection  room  and  I  sit 
with  Wells.  I  feel  on  my  mettle  almost  immediately,  sitting 
at  his  side,  and  I  feel  rather  glad  that  we  are  spending  our 
first  moments  in  an  atmosphere  where  I  am  at  home.  In 
his  presence  I  feel  critical  and  analytical  and  I  decide  to  tell 
the  truth  about  the  picture  at  all  costs.  I  feel  that  Wells 
would  do  the  same  thing  about  one  of  mine. 


MEETING  BURKE  AND  WELLS  99 

As  the  picture  is  reeling  off  I  whisper  to  him  my  likes  and 
dislikes,  principally  the  faulty  photography,  though  occa- 
sionally I  detect  bad  direction.  Wells  remains  perfectly 
silent  and  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  am  not  breaking  the  ice.  It 
is  impossible  to  get  acquainted  under  these  conditions. 
Thank  God,  I  can  keep  silent,  because  there  is  the  picture 
to  watch  and  that  saves  the  day. 

Then  Wells  whispers,  "Don't  you  think  the  boy  is  good?" 

The  boy  in  question  is  right  here  on  the  other  side  of  me, 
watching  his  first  picture,  I  look  at  him.  Just  starting  out 
on  a  new  career,  vibrant  with  ambition,  eager  to  make  good, 
and  his  first  attempt  being  shown  before  such  an  audience. 
As  I  watch  he  is  almost  in  tears,  nervous  and  anxious. 

The  picture  ends.  There  is  a  mob  clustering  about. 
Directors  and  officials  look  at  me.  They  want  my  opinion 
of  the  picture.  I  shall  be  truthful.  Shall  I  criticize  ?  Wells 
nudges  me  and  whispers,  "Say  something  nice  about  the 
boy."  And  I  look  at  the  boy  and  see  what  Wells  has  already 
seen  and  then  I  say  the  nice  things  about  him.  Wells's 
kindness  and  consideration  mean  so  much  more  than  a  mere 
picture. 

Wells  is  leaving  and  we  are  to  meet  for  dinner,  and  I  am 
left  alone  to  work  my  way  through  the  crush  to  the  taxi 
and  back  to  the  hotel,  where  I  snatch  a  bit  of  a  nap.  I 
want  to  be  in  form  for  Wells. 

There  comes  a  little  message  from  Wells : 

Don't  forget  the  dinner.  You  can  wrap  up  in  a  cloak  if  you  deem  it 
advisable,  and  slip  in  about  7.30  and  we  can  dine  in  peace. 

H.  G.  Wells. 
Whitehall  Court,  Entrance  4. 

We  talk  of  Russia  and  I  find  no  embarrassment  in  airing 
my  views,  but  I  soon  find  myself  merely  the  questioner. 
Wells  talks ;  and,  though  he  sees  with  the  vision  of  a  dreamer, 
he  brings  to  his  views  the  practical.  As  he  talks  he  appears 
very  much  like  an  American.  He  seems  very  yoimg  and 
full  of  "p^." 


100  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

There  is  the  general  feeling  that  conditions  will  right 
themselves  in  some  way.  Organization  is  needed,  he  says, 
and  is  just  as  important  as  disarmament.  Education  is  the 
only  salvation,  not  only  of  Russia,  but  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Socialism  of  the  right  sort  will  come  through  proper 
education.  We  discuss  my  prospects  of  getting  into  Russia. 
I  want  to  see  it.  Wells  tells  me  that  I  am  at  the  wrong  time 
of  the  year,  that  the  cold  weather  coming  on  would  make 
the  trip  most  inadvisable. 

I  talk  about  going  to  Spain,  and  he  seems  surprised  to 
hear  that  I  want  to  see  a  bull  fight.    He  asks,  "Why?" 

I  don't  know,  except  that  there  is  something  so  nakedly 
elemental  about  it.  There  is  a  picturesque  technic  about  it 
that  must  appeal  to  any  artist.  Perhaps  Frank  Harris's 
"Matador"  gave  me  the  impulse,  together  with  my  per- 
petual quest  far  a  new  experience.  He  says  it  is  too  cruel 
to  the  horses. 

I  relax  as  the  evening  goes  on  and  I  find  that  I  am  liking 
him  even  more  than  I  expected.  About  midnight  we  go  out 
on  a  balcony  just  off  his  library,  and  in  the  light  of  a  full 
moon  we  get  a  gorgeous  view  of  London.  Lying  before  us 
in  the  soft,  mellow  rays  of  the  moon,  London  looks  as  though 
human,  and  I  feel  that  we  are  rather  in  the  Peeping  Tom 
role. 

I  exclaim,  "The  indecent  moon." 

He  picks  me  up.    '  *  That's  good.    Where  did  you  get  that  ? ' ' 

I  have  to  admit  that  it  is  not  original — that  it  belongs  to 
Knobloch. 

Wells  comments  on  my  dappemess  as  he  helps  me  on  with 
my  coat.  "I  see  you  have  a  cane  with  you."  I  was  also 
wearing  a  silk  hat.  I  wonder  what  Los  Angeles  and  Holly- 
wood would  say  if  I  paraded  there  in  this  costume  ? 

Wells  tries  on  my  hat,  then  takes  my  cane  and  twirls  it. 
The  effect  is  ridiculous,  especially  as  just  at  the  moment 
I  notice  the  two  yolumes  of  the  Outline  of  History  on  his 
.table. 

Strutting  stagily,  he  chants,  "You're  quite  the  fellow, 


MEETING  BURKE  AND  WELLS         loi 

doncher  know."  We  both  laugh.  Another  virtue  for  Wells. 
He's  human. 

I  try  to  explain  my  dress.  Tell  him  that  it  is  my  other 
self,  a  reaction  from  the  everyday  Chaplin,  I  have  always 
desired  to  look  natty  and  I  have  spurts  of  primness.  Every- 
thing about  me  and  my  work  is  so  sensational  that  I  must 
get  reaction.  My  dress  is  a  part  of  it.  I  feel  that  it  is  a 
poor  explanation  of  the  paradox,  but  Wells  thinks  other- 
wise. 

He  says  I  notice  things.  That  I  am  an  observer  and  an 
analyst.  I  am  pleased.  I  tell  him  that  the  only  way  I 
notice  things  is  on  the  run.  Whatever  keenness  of  percep- 
tion I  have  is  momentary,  fleeting.  I  observe  all  in  ten 
minutes  or  not  at  all. 

What  a  pleasant  evening  it  is !  But  as  I  walk  along  toward 
the  hotel  I  feel  that  I  have  not  met  Wells  yet. 

And  I  am  going  to  have  another  opportunity.  I  am  going 
to  have  a  week-end  with  him  at  his  home  in  Easton,  a  week- 
end with  Wells  at  home,  with  just  his  family.  That  alone 
is  worth  the  entire  trip  from  Los  Angeles  to  Europe. 


XI 

\ 

OFF  TO   FRANCE 

THE  hotel  next  day  is  teeming  with  activity.  My  secre- 
taries are  immersed  in  mail  and,  despite  the  assistance 
of  six  girls  whom  they  have  added  temporarily  to  our  forces, 
the  mail  bags  are  piling  up  and  keeping  ahead  of  us. 

In  a  fit  of  generosity  or  ennui  or  something  I  pitch  in  and 
help.  It  seems  to  be  the  most  interesting  thing  I  have 
attempted  on  the  trip.  Why  didn't  I  think  of  it  sooner? 
Here  is  drama.  Here  is  life  in  abundance.  Each  letter  I 
read  brings  forth  new  settings,  new  characters,  new  prob- 
lems. I  find  myself  picking  out  many  letters  asking  for 
charity.    I  lay  these  aside. 

I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  France  immediately. 

I  call  Carl  Robinson.  I  tell  him  that  we  are  going  to 
France,  to  Paris,  at  once.  Carl  is  not  surprised.  He  has 
been  with  me  for  a  long  time.  We  decide  that  we  tell  no- 
body and  perhaps  we  can  escape  ceremonies.  We  will  keep 
the  apartment  at  the  Ritz  and  keep  the  stenographers  work- 
ing, so  that  callers  will  think  that  we  are  hiding  about 
London  somewhere. 

We  are  going  to  leave  on  Sunday  and  our  plans  are  per- 
fected in  rapid-fire  order.  We  plunge  about  in  a  terrible 
rush  as  we  try  to  arrange  everything  at  the  last  minute 
without  giving  the  appearance  of  arranging  anything. 

And  in  spite  of  everything,  there  is  a  mob  at  the  station 
to  see  us  off  and  autograph  books  are  thrown  at  me  from  all 
sides.    I  sign  for  as  many  as  I  can  and  upon  the  others  I 


IN  PARIS  WITH  SIR  PHILIP  BASSOON  AND  GEORGES  CARPENTIER 


OFF  TO  FRANCE  103 

bestow  my  "prop"  grin.  Wonder  if  I  look  like  Doug  when 
I  do  this? 

We  meet  the  skipper.  What  does  one  ask  skippers?  Oh 
yes,  how  does  it  look  to-day  for  crossing?  As  I  ask,  I  cast 
my  weather  eye  out  into  the  Channel  and  it  looks  decidedly 
rough  to  me. 

But  the  skipper's  "just  a  bit  choppy"  disarms  me. 

I  am  eager  to  get  on  the  boat,  and  the  first  person  I  meet 
is  Baron  Long,  owner  of  a  hotel  in  San  Diego.  Good  heav- 
ens! Can't  I  ever  get  away  from  Hollywood?  I  am  glad  to 
see  him,  but  not  now.  He  is  very  clever,  however.  He  senses 
the  situation,  smiles  quick  "hellos,"  and  then  makes  himself 
scarce.  In  fact,  I  think  he  wanted  to  get  away  himself. 
Maybe  he  was  as  anxious  for  a  holiday  as  I. 

I  am  approached  on  the  boat  by  two  very  charming  girls. 
They  want  my  autograph.  Ah,  this  is  nice !  I  never  enjoyed 
writing  my  name  more. 

How  I  wish  that  I  had  learned  French.  I  feel  hopelessly 
sunk,  because  after  about  three  sentences  in  French  I  am  a 
total  loss  so  far  as  conversation  is  concerned.  One  girl 
promises  to  give  me  a  French  lesson.  This  promises  to  be  a 
pleasant  trip. 

I  am  told  that  in  France  they  call  me  Chariot.  We  are 
by  this  time  strolling  about  the  boat  and  bowing  every  other 
minute.  It  is  getting  rough  and  I  find  myself  saying  I  rather 
like  it  that  way.     Liar. 

She  is  speaking.  I  smile.  She  smiles.  She  is  talking  in 
French.  I  am  getting  about  every  eighth  word.  I  can't  seem 
to  concentrate.    French  is  so  difficult.    Maybe  it's  the  boat. 

I  am  dying  rapidly.  I  feel  like  a  dead  weight  on  her  arm. 
I  can  almost  feel  myself  get  pale  as  I  try  to  say  something, 
anything.  I  am  weak  and  perspiring.  I  blurt  out,  "I  beg 
pardon,"  and  then  I  rush  off  to  my  cabin  and  lie  down.  Oh, 
why  did  I  leave  England?  Something  smells  horrible.  I 
look  up.  My  head  is  near  a  new  pigskin  bag.  Yes,  that's 
it,  that  awful  leathery  smell.  But  I  have  company.  Robin- 
son is  in  the  cabin  with  me  and  we  are  matching  ailments. 


104  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Thus  we  spent  the  trip  from  Dover  to  Calais  and  I  was 
as  glad  to  get  to  the  French  coast  as  the  Kaiser  would  have 
been  had  he  kept  that  dinner  engagement  in  Paris. 

Nearing  France,  I  am  almost  forgetting  my  sickness. 
There  is  something  in  the  atmosphere.  Something  vibrant. 
The  tempo  of  life  is  faster.  The  springs  in  its  mechanism 
are  wound  taut.  I  feel  as  if  I  would  like  to  take  it  apart 
and  look  at  those  springs. 

I  am  met  by  the  chief  of  police,  which  surprised  me, 
because  I  was  confident  that  I  had  been  canny  enough  to 
make  a  getaway  this  time.  But  no.  The  boat  enters  the 
quay  and  I  see  the  dock  crowded  with  people.  Some  treach- 
ery. Hats  are  waving,  kisses  are  being  thrown,  and  there 
are  cheers.  Cheers  that  I  can  only  get  through  the  expres- 
sion, because  they  are  in  French  and  I  am  notoriously 
deficient  in  that  language. 

''Vive  le  Chariot!"    "Bravo,  Chariot!" 

I  am  * '  Charioted ' '  all  over  the  place.  Strange,  this  foreign 
tongue.  Wonder  why  a  universal  language  isn't  practicable  ? 
They  are  crowding  about  me,  asking  for  autographs.  Or 
at  least  I  think  they  are,  because  they  are  pushing  books  in 
my  face,  though  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  make  out  a  word 
of  their  chatter.  But  I  smile.  God  bless  that  old  "prop" 
grin,  because  they  seem  to  like  it. 

Twice  I  was  kissed.  I  was  afraid  to  look  around  to  see 
who  did  it,  because  I  knew  I  was  in  France.  And  you've  got 
to  give  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  I  am  hoping  that  both 
kisses  came  from  pretty  girls,  though  I  do  think  that  at 
least  one  of  those  girls  should  shave. 

They  examine  my  signature  closely.  They  seem  puzzled. 
I  look.  It  is  spelled  right.  Oh,  I  see!  They  expected 
"Chariot."    And  I  write  some  more  with  "Chariot." 

I  am  being  bundled  along  to  a  funny  little  French  train. 
It  seems  like  a  toy.  But  I  am  enjoying  the  difference. 
Everything  is  all  changed.  The  new  money,  the  new  lan- 
guage, the  new  faces,  the  new  architecture — it's  a  grown- ap 
three-ring  circus  to  me.    The  crowd  gives  a  concerted  cheef 


OFF  TO  FRANCE  105 

as  the  train  pulls  out  and  a  few  intrepid  ones  run  alongside 
until  distanced  by  steam  and  steel. 

We  go  into  the  diner  and  here  is  a  fresh  surprise.  The 
dinner  is  table  d'hote  and  three  waiters  are  serving  it.  Every- 
one is  served  at  once,  and  as  one  man  is  taking  up  the  soup 
plates  another  is  serving  the  next  course.  Here  is  French 
economy — economy  that  seems  very  sensible  as  they  have 
perfected  it.  It  seems  so  different  from  America,  where 
waiters  always  seem  to  be  falling  over  one  another  in  diners. 
And  wines  with  the  meal !  And  the  check ;  it  did  not  resem- 
ble in  size  the  national  debt,  as  dinner  checks  usually  do  in 
America. 

It  has  started  to  rain  as  we  arrive  in  Paris,  which  adds  to 
my  state  of  excitement,  and  a  reportorial  avalanche  falls 
upon  me.  I  am  about  overcome.  How  did  reporters  know 
I  was  coming?  The  crowd  outside  the  station  is  almost  as 
large  as  the  one  in  London. 

I  am  still  feeling  the  effects  of  my  seasickness.  I  am  not 
equal  to  speaking  nor  answering  questions.  We  go  to  the 
customs  house  and  one  journalist,  finding  us,  suggests  and 
points  another  way  out.  I  am  sick.  I  must  disappoint  the 
crowd,  and  I  leap  into  a  taxi  and  am  driven  to  Claridge's 
Hotel. 

"Out  of  the  frying  pan."  Here  are  more  reporters.  And 
they  speak  nothing  but  French.  The  hubbub  is  awful.  We 
talk  to  one  another.  We  shout  at  one  another.  We  talk 
slowly.  We  spell.  We  do  everything  to  make  Frenchmen 
understand  English,  and  Englishmen  understand  French, 
but  it  is  no  use.  One  of  them  manages  to  ask  me  what  I 
think  of  Paris. 

I  answer  that  I  never  saw  so  many  Frenchmen  in  my 
life.  I  am  looking  forward  eagerly  to  meeting  Cami,  the 
famous  French  cartoonist.  We  have  been  corresponding 
for  several  years,  he  sending  me  many  drawings  and  I 
sending  him  still  photos  from  pictures.  We  had  built 
up  quite  a  friendship  and  I  have  been  looking  forward 
to  a  meeting.     I  see  him. 


io6  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

He  is  coming  to  me  and  we  are  both  smiling  broadly  as 
we  open  our  arms  to  each  other. 

"Cami!" 

"Chariot!" 

Otir  greeting  is  most  effusive.  And  then  something  goes 
wrong.  He  is  talking  in  French,  a  blue  streak,  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  machine  gun.  I  can  feel  my  smile  fading  into 
blankness.  Then  I  get  an  inspiration.  I  start  talking  in 
English  just  as  rapidly.  Then  we  both  talk  at  once.  It's 
the  old  story  of  the  irresistible  force  and  the  immovable 
body.    We  get  nowhere. 

Then  I  try  talking  slowly,  extremely  slow. 

*  *  Do — ^you — understand  ? " 

It  means  nothing.  We  both  realize  at  the  same  time 
what  a  hopeless  thing  our  interview  is.  We  are  sad  a  bit, 
then  we  smile  at  the  absurdity  of  it.  He  is  still  Cami  and 
I  am  still  Chariot,  so  we  grin  and  have  a  good  time,  anyhow. 

He  stays  to  dinner,  which  is  a  hectic  meal,  for  through  it 
all  I  am  tasting  this  Paris,  this  Paris  that  is  waiting  for  me. 
We  go  out  and  to  the  Folies  Bergere.  Paris  does  not  seem 
as  light  as  I  expected  it  to  be. 

And  the  Folies  Bergere  seems  shabbier.  I  remember  hav- 
ing played  here  once  myself  with  a  pantomime  act.  How 
grand  it  looked  then.  Rather  antiquated  now.  Somehow 
it  saddened  me,  this  bit  of  memory  that  was  chased  up 
before  me. 

Next  day  there  is  a  luncheon  with  Dudley  Field  M  alone 
and  Waldo  Frank.  It  is  a  brisk  and  vivacious  meal  except 
when  it  is  broken  up  by  a  visit  from  the  American  newspaper 
correspondents. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  why  did  you  come  to  Europe?" 

"Are  you  going  to  Russia?" 

"Did  you  call  on  Shaw?" 

They  must  have  cabled  over  a  set  of  questions.  I  went 
all  over  the  catechism  for  them  and  managed  to  keep  the 
"prop"  grin  at  work.  I  wouldn't  let  them  spoil  Paris 
for  me. 


I    MKET   LADY   ROCK-SAVAGE   AND   SIR  PHILIP   SASSOON,   THE   POET 


OFF  TO  FRANCE  107 

We  escape  after  a  bit,  and  back  at  the  hotel  I  notice  an 
air  of  formality  creeping  into  the  atmosphere  as  I  hear 
voices  in  the  parlor  of  my  suite.  Then  my  secretary  comes 
in  and  announces  that  a  very  important  personage  is  calling 
and  would  speak  with  me. 

He  enters,  an  attractive-looking  gentleman,  and  he  speaks 
English. 

"Mr.  Chaplin,  that  I  am  to  you  talk  of  greetings  from  the 
heart  of  the  people  with  France,  that  you  make  laugh. 
Cannot  you  forego  to  make  showing  of  yourself  with  charity 
sometime  for  devastated  France?  On  its  behalf,  I  say  to 
you—" 

I  tell  him  that  I  will  take  it  up  later. 

He  smiles,  "Ah,  you  are  boozy." 

"Oh  no.  I  haven't  had  a  drink  for  several  days,"  I  hasten 
to  inform  him.  "I  am  busy  and  want  to  get  to  bed  early 
to-night." 

But  Malone  butts  in  with,  "Oh  yes,  he's  very  boozy." 

And  I  get  a  bit  indignant  until  Malone  tells  me  that  the 
Frenchman  means  "busy." 

Then  I  am  told  that  there  is  one  young  journalist  still 
waiting  who  has  been  here  all  day,  refusing  to  go  until  I 
have  seen  him.  And  I  tell  them  to  bring  him  in.  He  comes 
in  smiling  in  triumph. 

And  he  can't  speak  English. 

After  his  hours  of  waiting  we  cannot  talk. 

I  feel  rather  sorry  for  him  and  we  do  our  best.  Finally, 
with  the  aid  of  about  everyone  in  the  hotel  he  manages  to 
ask: 

"Do  you  like  France?" 

"Yes,"  I  answer. 

He  is  satisfied. 

Waldo  Frank  and  I  sit  on  a  bench  in  the  Champs  Elysees 
and  watch  the  wagons  going  to  market  in  the  early  morning. 
Paris  seems  most  beautiful  to  me  just  at  this  time. 

What  a  city!  What  is  the  force  that  has  made  it  what 
it  is?    Could  anyone  conceive  such  a  creation,  such  a  land 


io8  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

of  continuous  gayety?  It  is  a  masterpiece  among  cities,  the 
last  word  in  pleasure.  Yet  I  feel  that  something  has  hap- 
pened to  it,  something  that  they  are  trying  to  cover  by 
heightened  plunges  into  song  and  laughter. 

We  stroll  along  the  boulevard  and  it  is  growing  light.  I 
am  recognized  and  we  are  being  followed.  We  are  passing 
a  church.  There  is  an  old  woman  asleep  on  the  steps,  but 
she  does  not  seem  worn  and  haggard.  There  is  almost  a 
smile  on  her  face  as  she  sleeps.  She  typifies  Paris  to  me. 
Hides  her  poverty  behind  a  smile. 

Sir  Philip  Sassoon,  who  is  the  confidential  secretary  to 
Lloyd  George,  calls  the  next  day  with  Georges  Carpentier, 
the  pugilistic  idol  of  France,  and  we  are  photographed  many 
times,  the  three  of  us  together,  and  separately. 

I  am  quite  surprised  that  Sir  Philip  is  such  a  young  man. 
I  had  pictured  the  secretary  of  Lloyd  George  as  rather  a 
dignified  and  aged  person.  He  makes  an  appointment  for 
me  to  dine  with  Lord  and  Lady  Rock-Savage  the  next  day. 
Lady  Rock-Savage  is  his  sister. 

I  also  lunch  with  them  the  next  day,  and  then  to  a  very 
fashionable  modiste's  for  some  shopping.  This  is  my  first 
offense  of  this  sort.  I  meet  Lady  Astor,  who  is  shopping 
there  also. 

It  was  quite  a  treat  for  me,  watching  the  models  in  this 
huge,  elaborate  institution  that  was  really  a  palace  in  ap- 
pointments. In  fact,  it  greatly  resembled  the  palace  at 
Versailles. 

I  felt  very  meek  when  tall,  suave  creatures  strolled  out 
and  swept  past  me,  some  imperious,  some  contemptuous. 
It  was  a  studied  air,  but  they  did  it  well.  I  wonder  what 
effect  it  has  on^the  girl's  mind  as  she  parades  herself  before 
the  high-born  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

But  I  catch  the  imperfection  in  their  schooling.  It  is 
very  amusing  to  watch  them  strut  about  until  their  display 
is  made,  and  then,  their  stint  done,  slouch  back  into  the 
dressing-rooms  sans  carriage  and  manner. 

And  then,  too,  I  am  discovered-    This  also  causes  a  break 


OFF  TO  FRANCE  109 

in  the  spell  of  their  queenly  stroll.  They  are  laughing  and 
at  the  same  time  trying  to  maintain  the  dignity  due  the 
gowns  they  are  wearing.  They  become  self-conscious  and 
the  effect  is  ludicrous.  I  am  demoralizing  the  institution, 
so  we  get  away.  I  would  like  to  talk  to  some  of  the  models, 
but  it  can't  be  done  very  well. 

From  there  we  go  to  a  candy  store,  where  I  lay  in  a  supply 
of  chocolates  and  preserved  fruits  for  my  trip  into  Germany 
the  next  day.  I  am  invited  by  Sir  Philip  to  visit  him  at  his 
country  home  in  Lympe,  Kent,  on  my  return  from  Germany. 

That  evening  I  go  with  a  party  of  Dudley  Field  Malone's 
to  the  Palais  Royale  in  the  Montmartre  district.  This  is  a 
novelty.  Different.  Seems  several  steps  ahead  of  America. 
And  it  has  atmosphere,  something  entirely  its  own,  that  you 
feel  so  much  more  than  the  tangible  things  about  you. 

There  is  a  woman  wearing  a  monocle.  A  simple  touch, 
but  how  it  changes !  The  fashions  here  proclaim  themselves 
even  without  comparison  and  expert  opinion.  The  music  is 
simple,  exotic,  neurotic.  Its  simplicity  demands  attention. 
It  reaches  inside  you  instead  of  affecting  your  feet. 

They  are  dancing  a  tango.  It  is  entertainment  just  to 
watch  them.  The  pauses  in  the  music,  its  dreamy  cadences, 
its  insinuation,  its  suggestiveness,  its  whining,  almost  mo- 
notonous swing.  It  is  tropical  yet,  this  Paris.  And  I 
realize  that  Paris  is  at  a  high  pitch.  Paris  has  not  yet 
had  relief  from  the  cloddy  numbness  brought  on  with 
the  war.  I  wonder  will  relief  come  easily  or  will  there 
be  a  conflagration. 

I  meet  Doughie,  the  correspondent.  We  recall  our  first 
meeting  in  the  kitchen  of  Christine's  in  Greenwich  Village. 

It  is  soon  noised  about  that  I  am  here  and  our  table  takes 
on  the  atmosphere  of  a  reception.    What  a  medley ! 

Strangely  garbed  artists,  long-haired  poets,  news-sheet 
and  flower  vendors,  sight -seers,  students,  children,  and  co- 
cottes.  Presently  came  Miss  Iris  Tree,  the  poet,  her  lovely 
golden  hair  gleaming  in  the  tavern  light,  and  she  with  the 
air  and  figure  of  a  mediaeval  page. 


no  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

It  is  good  to  see  her  again  and  we  fix  up  a  bit  of  a  party 
and  get  into  Dudley's  petrol  wagon,  and  as  we  bowl  along 
we  sing  songs,  ancient  songs  of  the  music  halls,  "After  the 
Ball,"  "The  Man  that  Broke  the  Bank  of  Monte  Carlo," 
and  many  another  which  I  had  not  thought  of  in  years. 
Presently  the  wagon  becomes  balky  and  will  not  continue. 
So  we  all  pile  out  and  into  a  tavern  near  by,  where  we  call 
for  wine. 

And  Dudley  played  upon  the  tin-pan-sounding  piano. 
There  came  one,  a  tall,  strange,  pale  youth,  who  asked  if  we 
would  like  to  go  to  the  haunt  of  the  Agile  Rabbit.  Thence 
uphill  and  into  a  cavernous  place.  When  the  patron  came 
the  youth  ordered  wine  for  us.  Somehow  I  think  he  sensed 
the  fact  that  I  wanted  to  remain  incognito. 

The  patron  was  such  a  perfect  host.  Ancient  and  white 
bearded,  he  served  us  with  a  finesse  that  was  pure  artistry. 
Then  at  his  command  one  named  Rene  Chedecal,  with  a 
sad,  haunted  face,  played  upon  the  violin. 

That  little  house  sheltered  music  that  night.  He  played 
as  if  from  his  soul,  a  me-ssage  yearning,  passionate,  sad,  gay, 
and  we  were  speechless  before  the  emotional  beauty  and 
mystery  of  it. 

I  was  overcome.  I  wanted  to  express  my  appreciation, 
but  could  do  no  more  than  grasp  his  hand.  Genius  breeds 
in  strange  places  and  humble. 

And  then  the  bearded  one  sang  a  song  that  he  said  the  fol- 
lowers of  Lafayette  had  sung  before  they  left  France  for 
America.  And  all  of  us  joined  in  the  chorus,  singing  "Apris 
de  ma  blonde"  lustily. 

Then  a  young  chap  did  two  songs  from  Verlaine,  and  a 
poet  with  considerable  skill  recited  from  his  own  poems. 
How  effective  for  the  creator  of  a  thought  to  interpret  it. 
And  afterward  the  violin  player  gave  us  another  selection  of 
great  beauty,  one  of  his  own  compositions. 

Then  the  old  patron  asked  me  to  put  my  name  in  his 
ledger,  which  contained  many  names  of  both  humble  and 
famous.    I  drew  a  picture  of  my  hat,  cane,  and  boots,  which 


OFF  TO  FRANCE  in 

is  my  favorite  autograph.  I  wrote,  "I  would  sooner  be  a 
gypsy  than  a  movie  man,"  and  signed  my  name. 

Home  in  the  petrol  wagon,  which  by  this  time  had  become, 
manageable  again.  An  evening  of  rareness.  Beauty,  excite- 
ment, sadness  and  contact  with  human,  lovable  personalities. 

Waldo  Frank  called  the  next  day,  bringing  with  him 
Jacques  Copeau,  one  of  the  foremost  dramatists  and  actors 
in  France,  who  manages  and  directs  in  his  own  theater.  We 
go  to  the  circus  together  and  I  never  saw  so  many  sad-faced 
clowns.  We  dine  together,  and  late  that  night  I  have  sup- 
per with  Copeau's  company  in  a  cafe  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 
It  is  a  gay  evening,  lasting  until  about  three  in  the  morning. 

Frank  and  I  set  out  to  walk  home  together,  but  the  section 
is  too  fascinating.  Along  about  four  o'clock  we  drift  into 
another  cafe,  dimly  lit  but  well  attended.  We  sit  there  for 
some  time,  studying  the  various  occupants. 

Over  in  one  corner  a  young  girl  has  just  leaned  over  and 
kissed  her  sailor  companion.  No  one  seems  to  notice.  All 
the  girls  here  seem  young,  but  their  actions  stamp  their 
vocations.  Music,  stimulating,  exotic,  and  for  the  dance,  is 
being  played.  The  girls  are  very  much  alive.  They  are 
putting  their  hats  on  the  men's  heads. 

There  are  three  peasant  farmer  boys,  in  all  probability. 
They  seem  very  much  embarrassed  as  three  tiny  girls,  bright 
eyed  and  red  lipped,  join  them  for  a  drink.  I  can  see  fire 
smoldering  in  their  dull  faces  in  spite  of  their  awkwardness 
in  welcoming  the  girls. 

An  interesting  figure,  Corsican,  I  should  say,  is  very  con- 
spicuous. A  gentleman  by  his  bearing,  debonair  and  grace- 
ful, he  looks  the  very  picture  of  an  impecunious  count.  He 
is  visiting  all  the  tables  in  the  cafe.  At  most  of  them  he 
calls  the  girls  by  their  first  names. 

He  is  taking  up  a  collection  for  the  musicians.  Everyone 
is  contributing  liberally.  With  each  tinkle  of  a  coin  in  the 
hat  the  Corsican  bows  elaborately  and  extends  thanks.  He 
finishes  the  collection. 

"On  with  the  dance,"  he  shouts.    "Don't  let  the  music 


112  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

stop,"  as  he  rattles  the  money.  Then  he  puts  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  draws  forth  a  single  centime  piece.  It  is 
very  small,  but  his  manner  is  that  of  a  philanthropist. 

"I  give  something,  no  matter  how  small;  you  notice, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  I  give  something,"  and  he  drops 
his  coin  in  the  hat  and  bows. 

The  party  progresses  rapidly.  They  have  started  singing 
and  have  had  just  enough  drink  to  make  them  matidlin. 
We  leave. 


XII 

MY  VISIT   TO   GERMANY 

THE  train  to  Germany  left  so  late  in  the  evening  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  see  devastated  France  even 
though  we  passed  through  a  considerable  portion  of  it.  Our 
compartment  on  the  train  is  very  stuffy  and  smelly  and  the 
train  service  is  atrocious,  food  and  sanitary  conditions  being 
intolerable  after  American  train  service. 

Again  there  is  a  crowd  at  the  station  to  see  me  off,  but  I 
am  rather  enjoying  it.  A  beautiful  French  girl  presents  me 
with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  with  a  cute  little  speech,  or  at 
least  I  suppose  it  was,  because  she  looked  very  cute  deliver- 
ing it,  and  the  pouts  that  the  language  gave  to  her  red  lips, 
were  most  provocative.  She  tells  me  in  delicious  broken 
English  that  I  look  tired  and  sad,  and  I  find  myself  yielding 
without  a  struggle  to  her  suggestion. 

We  arrive  at  Joumont  near  the  Belgian  frontier  along 
about  midnight,  and,  like  a  message  from  home,  there  is  a 
gang  of  American  soldier  boys  at  the  station  to  greet  me. 
And  they  are  not  alone,  for  French,  Belgian,  and  British 
troops  are  also  waving  and  cheering.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  the 
Belgians,  and  we  tried  it,  but  it  was  no  use.     What  a  pity! 

But  one  of  them  had  a  happy  inspiration  and  saved  the 
day. 

"Glass  of  beer.  Chariot?" 

I  nod,  smiling.  And  to  my  surprise  they  bring  me  beer, 
which  I  lift  to  my  lips  for  politeness,  and  then  drink  it  to 
the  last  drop  in  pure  pleasure.    It  is  very  good  beer. 


114  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

There  is  a  group  of  charming  Httle  Belgian  girls.  They 
are  smiling  at  me  shyly  and  I  so  want  to  say  something  to 
them.  But  I  can't.  Ah,  the  bouquet!  Each  little  girl  gets 
a  rose  and  they  are  delighted. 

"Merci,  merci,  monsieur."  And  they  keep  "merciing" 
and  bowing  until  the  train  pulls  out  of  the  station,  which 
emboldens  them  to  join  the  soldiers  in  a  cheer. 

Through  an  opening  between  the  railroad  structures  I 
see  a  brilliant  lighting  display.  It  is  universal,  this  sign. 
Here  is  a  movie  in  this  tiny  village.  What  a  wonderful 
medium,  to  reach  such  an  obscure  town. 

On  the  train  I  am  being  told  that  my  pictures  have  not 
played  in  Germany,  hence  I  am  practically  unknown  there. 
This  rather  pleases  me  because  I  feel  that  I  can  relax  and  be 
away  from  crowds. 

Everyone  on  the  train  is  nice  and  there  is  no  trouble. 
Conductors  struggle  with  English  for  my  benefit,  and  the 
customs  officers  make  but  little  trouble.  In  fact,  we  cross 
the  border  at  three  in  the  morning  and  I  am  asleep.  Next 
morning  I  find  a  note  from  the  customs  man  saying :  ' '  Good 
luck,  Charlie.  You  were  sleeping  so  soundly  that  I  did  not 
have  the  heart  to  wake  you  for  inspection." 

Germany  is  beautiful.  Germany  belies  the  war.  There 
are  people  crowding  the  fields,  tilling  the  soil,  working  fever- 
ishly all  the  time  as  our  train  rushes  through.  Men,  women, 
and  children  are  all  at  work.  They  are  facing  their  problem 
and  rebuilding.    A  great  people,  perverted  for  and  by  a  few. 

The  different  style  of  architecture  here  is  interesting. 
Factories  are  being  built  everywhere.  Surely  this  isn't 
conquered  territory.  I  do  not  see  much  live  stock  in  the 
fields.    This  seems  strange. 

A  dining  car  has  been  put  on  the  train  and  the  waiter 
comes  to  our  compartment  to  let  us  know  that  we  may  eat. 
Here  is  a  novelty.  A  seven-course  dinner,  with  wine,  soup, 
meat,  vegetables,  salad,  dessert,  coffee,  and  bread  for 
twenty-eight  cents.  This  is  made  possible  by  the  low  rate 
of  exchange. 


MY  VISIT  TO  GERMANY  115 

We  go  to  the  Adlon  Hotel  in  Berlin  and  find  that  hostelry 
jammed,  owing  to  the  auto  races  which  are  being  run  off  at 
this  time.  A  different  atmosphere  here.  It  seems  hard  for 
me  to  relax  and  get  the  normal  reaction  to  meeting  people. 
They  don't  know  me  here.  I  have  never  been  heard  of.  It 
interests  me  and  I  believe  I  resent  it  just  a  bit. 

I  notice  how  abrupt  and  polite  the  Germans  are  to  for- 
eigners, and  I  detect  a  tinge  of  bitterness,  too.  I  am  won- 
dering about  my  pictures  making  their  debut  here.  I  ques- 
tion the  power  of  my  personality  without  its  background  of 
reputation. 

I  am  feeling  more  restful  under  this  disinterested  treat- 
ment, but  somehow  I  wish  that  my  pictures  had  been 
shown  here.  The  people  at  the  hotel  are  very  courteous. 
They  have  been  told  that  I  am  the  "white-headed  boy  and 
quite  the  guy  in  my  home  town."  Their  reactions  are  amus- 
ing. I  am  not  very  impressive-looking  and  they  are  finding 
it  hard  to  believe. 

There  is  quite  a  crowd  in  the  lobby  and  a  number  of 
Americans  and  English.  They  are  not  long  in  finding  me, 
and  a  number  of  English,  French,  and  American  reporters 
start  making  a  fuss  over  me.  The  Geimans  just  stand  and 
look  on,  bewildered. 

Carl  von  Weigand  comes  forward  with  the  offer  of  the  use 
of  his  office  while  I  am  here.  The  Germans  are  impressed 
with  all  this,  but  they  show  no  enthusiasm.  I  am  accepted 
in  an  offhand  way  as  some  cae  of  importance  and  they  let 
it  go  at  that. 

The  Scala  Theater,  where  I  spent  the  evening,  is  most 
interesting,  though  I  think  a  bit  antiquated  when  compared 
with  English  and  American  theatrical  progress  along  the 
same  lines.  It  seats  about  five  thousand,  mostly  on  one 
floor,  with  a  very  small  balcony.  It  is  of  the  variety,  music- 
hall  type,  showing  mostly  "dumb"  acts.  Acts  that  do  not 
talk  or  sing,  like  comic  jugglers,  acrobats,  and  dancers. 

I  am  amused  by  a  German  comedian  singing  a  song  of 
about  twenty  verses,  but  the  audience  is  enthused  and  voices 


Ii6  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

its  approval  at  every  verse.  During  the  intermission  we 
have  frankfurters  and  beer,  which  are  served  in  the  theater. 
I  notice  the  crowds.  They  go  to  the  theater  there  as  a  fam- 
ily.   It  is  just  that  type  of  an  affair. 

I  notice  the  different  types  of  beauty,  though  beauty  is 
not  very  much  in  evidence  here.  Here  and  there  are  a  few 
pretty  girls,  but  not  many.  It  is  interesting  to  watch  the 
people  strolling  during  the  intermission,  drinking  lager  and 
eating  all  sorts  of  food. 

Leaving  the  theater,  we  visit  the  Scala  Cafe,  a  sort  of 
impressionistic  casino.  The  Scala  is  one  of  the  largest  cafes 
in  Berlin,  where  the  modernist  style  in  architecture  has  been 
carried  out  fully. 

The  walls  are  deep  mottled  sea  green,  shading  into  light 
verdigris  and  emerald,  leaning  outward  at  an  angle,  thereby 
producing  an  effect  of  collapse  and  forward  motion.  The 
junction  of  the  walls  and  the  ceiling  is,  broken  into  irregular 
slabs  of  stone,  like  the  strata  of  a  cave.  Behind  these  the 
lights  are  hidden,  the  whole  system  of  illumination  being 
based  on  reflection. 

The  immense  dislocation  of  the  planes  and  angles  of  the 
vaultlike  ceiling  is  focused  on  the  central  point,  the  huge 
silver  star  or  crystal  bursting  like  an  exploding  bomb  through 
the  roof.  The  whole  effect  is  weird,  almost  ominous.  The 
shape  of  the  room  in  its  ground  plan  is  itself  irregular — the 
impression  is  that  of  a  frozen  catastrophe.  Yet  this  feeling 
seems  to  be  in  accord  with  the  mood  of  revelers  in  Germany 
to-day. 

From  there  to  the  Palais  Heinroth,  the  most  expensive 
place  in  Berlin  and  the  high  spot  of  night  life.  It  is  con- 
spicuous in  its  brilliance,  because  Berlin  as  a  city  is  so  badly 
lighted.  At  night  the  streets  are  dark  and  gloomy,  and  it 
is  then  that  one  gets  the  effect  of  war  and  defeat. 

At  the  Heinroth  everybody  was  in  evening  dress.  We 
weren't.  My  appearance  did  not  cause  any  excitement. 
We  check  our  hats  and  coats  and  ask  for  a  table.  The  man- 
ager shrugs  his  shoulders.    There  is  one  in  the  back,  a  most 


MY  VISIT  TO  GERMANY  117 

obscure  part  of  the  room.  This  brings  home  forcibly  the 
absence  of  my  reputation.  It  nettled  me.  Well,  I  wanted 
rest.     This  was  it. 

We  are  about  to  accept  humbly  the  isolated  table,  when  I 
hear  a  shriek  and  I  am  slapped  on  the  back  and  there's  a 
yell: 

"Chariie!" 

It  is  Al  Kaufman  of  the  Lasky  corporation  and  manager 
of  the  Famous  Players  studio  in  Berlin. 

* '  Come  over  to  our  table.    Pola  Negri  wants  to  meet  you. ' ' 

Again  I  come  into  my  own.  The  Germans  look  on,  won- 
dering. I  have  created  attention  at  last.  I  discover  that 
there  is  an  American  jazz  band  in  the  place.  In  the  middle 
of  a  number  they  stop  playing  and  shout : 

"Hooray  for  Charlie  Chaplin!" 

The  proprietor  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  the  band  resumes 
playing.  I  learn  that  the  musicians  are  former  American 
doughboys.  I  feel  rather  pleased  that  I  have  impressed  the 
Germans  in  the  place. 

In  our  party  were  Rita  Kaufman,  wife  of  Al,  Pola  Negri, 
Carl  Robinson,  and  myself. 

Pola  Negri  is  really  beautiful.  She  is  Polish  and  really 
true  to  the  type.  Beautiful  jet-black  hair,  white,  even  teeth 
and  wonderful  coloring.  I  think  it  such  a  pity  that  such 
coloring  does  not  register  on  the  screen. 

She  is  the  center  of  attraction  here.  I  am  introduced. 
What  a  voice  she  has!  Her  mouth  speaks  so  prettily  the 
German  language.  Her  voice  has  a  soft,  mellow  quality, 
with  charming  inflections.  Offered  a  drink,  she  clinks  my 
glass  and  offers  her  only  English  words,  "Jazz  boy  Charlie." 

Language  again  stumps  me.  What  a  pity !  But  with  the 
aid  of  a  third  party  we  get  along  famously.  Kaufman  whis- 
pers: "Charlie,  you've  made  a  hit.  She  just  told  me  that 
you  are  charming." 

"You  tell  her  that  she's  the  loveliest  thing  I've  seen  in 
Europe."  These  compliments  keep  up  for  some  time,  and 
then  I  ask  Kaufman  how  to  say,  "I  think  you  are  divine" 


ii8  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

in  German.  He  tells  me  something  in  German  and  I  repeat 
it  to  her. 

She's  startled  and  looks  up  and  slaps  my  hand.  "  Naughty- 
boy,"  she  says. 

The  table  roars.  I  sense  that  I  have  been  double-crossed 
by  Kaufman.  What  have  I  said  ?  But  Pola  joins  in  the  joke, 
and  there  is  no  casualty.  I  learn  later  that  I  have  said,  "I 
think  you  are  terrible."  I  decided  to  go  home  and  learn 
German. 

As  I  am  going  out  the  proprietor  approaches  and  very 
formally  addresses  me:  "I  beg  pardon,  sir.  I  understand 
that  you  are  a  great  man  in  the  United  States.  Accept  my 
apologies  for  not  knowing,  and  the  gates  here  are  always 
open  to  you."  I  accept  them  formally,  though  through  it 
all  I  feel  very  comic  opera.    I  didn't  like  the  proprietor. 

I  want  to  go  through  the  German  slums.  I  mention  such 
a  trip  to  a  German  newspaper  man.  I  am  told  that  I  am  just 
like  every  Londoner  and  New-Yorker  who  comes  to  Berlin 
for  the  first  time;  that  I  want  the  Whitechapel  district,  the 
Bowery  of  Berlin,  and  that  there  is  no  such  district.  Once 
upon  a  time  there  were  hovels  in  Berlin,  but  they  have  long 
since  disappeared. 

This  to  me  is  a  real  step  toward  civilization. 

My  newspaper  friend  tells  me  that  he  will  give  me  the 
next  best  thing  to  the  slums,  and  we  go  to  Krogel.  What  a 
picture  could  be  made  here!  I  am  fascinated  as  I  wander 
through  houses  mounted  on  shaky  stilts  and  courts  ancient 
but  cleanly. 

Then  we  drove  to  Acker  Street  and  gazed  into  courts  and 
basements.  In  a  cafe  we  talked  to  men  and  women  and 
drank  beer.  I  almost  launched  a  new  war  when,  wishing  to 
pay  a  charge  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  marks,  I  pulled  from 
my  pocket  a  roll  of  fifty  one-thousand-mark  notes. 

My  friend  paid  the  check  quickly  with  small  change  and 
hustled  me  out,  telling  me  of  the  hard  faces  and  criminal 
types  who  were  watching.  He's  probably  right,  but  I  love 
those  poor,  humble  people. 


MY  VISIT  TO  GERMANY  119 

We  drove  to  the  arbor  colonies  in  the  northern  part  of  the 
city,  stopping  at  some  of  the  arbors  to  talk  to  the  people. 
I  feel  that  I  would  like  to  eat  dinner  here  among  these  peo- 
ple, but  I  haven't  sufficient  courage  to  persuade  my  com- 
panion, who  wouldn't  think  of  it.  Passing  through  the 
northern  part  of  Berlin,  I  found  many  beauties  which,  my 
friend  let  me  know,  were  not  considered  beautiful  at  all. 

He  even  suggested  that  he  show  me  something  in  contrast 
with  all  I  had  seen.  I  told  him  no,  that  it  would  spoil  my 
whole  viewpoint. 

It  has  been  rather  a  restful  experience,  going  through  the 
whole  town  without  being  recognized,  but  even  as  I  am 
thinking  it  a  fashionable  lady  and  her  young  daughter  pass, 
and  by  their  smiles  I  know  that  I  am  again  discovered. 

And  then  we  meet  Fritz  Kreisler  and  his  wife,  who  are 
just  leaving  for  Munich.  We  have  quite  a  chat  and  then 
make  tentative  engagements  to  be  carried  out  in  Los  Angeles 
on  his  next  trip  there. 

I  notice  that  the  Germans  seem  to  be  scrupulously  honest, 
or  maybe  this  was  all  the  more  noticeable  to  me  because  of 
genial  and  unsuspicious  treatment  by  a  taxi  driver.  We 
left  the  cab  many  times  and  were  gone  as  long  as  half  an 
hour  at  a  time,  and  out  of  sight,  yet  he  always  waited  and 
never  suggested  that  he  be  paid  beforehand. 

In  the  business  section  we  pass  many  cripples  with  embit- 
tered, sullen  looks  on  their  faces.  They  look  as  though  they 
had  paid  for  something  which  they  hadn't  received.  We  are 
approached  by  a  legless  soldier  beggar  in  a  faded  German 
uniform.  Here  was  the  war's  mark.  These  sights  you  will 
find  on  every  side  in  Berlin. 

I  am  presented  with  a  police  card  to  the  Berliner  Club, 
which  is  evidently  a  technicality  by  which  the  law  is  cir- 
cumvented. Berlin  is  full  of  such  night-life  clubs.  They  are 
somewhat  like  the  gatherings  that  prohibition  has  brought 
to  America. 

There  are  no  signs,  however,  from  the  outside  of  any 
activity,  and  you  are  compelled  to  go  up  dark  passages  an4 


I20  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

suddenly  come  upon  gayly  lit  rooms  very  similar  to  Parisian 
cafes. 

Dancing  and  popping  corks  are  the  first  impression  as  I 
enter.  We  are  taken  in  hand  by  two  girls  and  they  order 
drinks  for  us.  The  girls  are  very  nervous.  In  fact,  the  whole 
night  life  of  this  town  seems  to  be  nervous,  neurotic,  over- 
done. 

The  girls  dance,  but  very  badly.  They  do  not  seem  to 
enjoy  it  and  treat  it  as  part  of  the  job.  They  are  very  much 
interested  in  my  friend,  who  seems  to  have  the  money  for 
the  party.  On  these  occasions  my  secretary  always  carries 
the  family  roll,  and  they  are  paying  much  attention  to  him. 

I  sit  here  rather  moody  and  quiet,  though  one  of  the  girls 
works  hard  to  cheer  me  up.  I  hear  her  asking  Robinson 
what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  smile  and  become  courteous. 
But,  her  duty  done,  she  turns  again  to  Robinson. 

I  am  piqued.  Where  is  that  personality  of  mine?  I  have 
been  told  many  times  that  I  have  it.  But  here  it  is  con- 
vincingly shown  that  personality  has  no  chance  against 
"pursenality." 

But  I  am  beginning  to  get  so  much  attention  from  my 
friends  that  one  of  the  girls  is  noticing  me.  She  senses  that 
I  am  some  one  important,  but  she  can't  quite  make  it  out. 

"Who  is  this  guy,  an  English  diplomat?"  she  whispers  to 
Robinson.  He  whispers  back  that  I  am  a  man  of  consider- 
able importance  in  the  diplomatic  service.  I  smile  benevo- 
lently and  they  become  more  interested. 

I  am  treating  her  rather  paternally  and  am  feeling  philo- 
sophical. I  ask  about  her  life.  What  is  she  doing  with  it? 
What  ambitions?  She  is  a  great  reader,  she  tells  me,  and 
likes  Schopenhauer  and  Nietzsche.  But  she  shrugs  her 
shoulders  in  an  indifferent  and  tragic  manner  and  says, 
"What  does  it  matter  about  life? 

"You  make  it  what  it  is,"  she  says.  "In  your  brain  alone 
it  exists  and  effort  is  only  necessary  for  physical  comfort." 
We  are  becoming  closer  friends  as  she  tells  me  this. 

But  she  must  have  some  objective,  there  must  be  some 


MY  VISIT  TO  GERMANY  121 

dreams  of  the  future  still  alive  within  her.  I  am  very  anx- 
ious to  know  what  she  really  thinks. 

I  ask  her  about  the  defeat  of  Germany.  She  becomes  dis- 
creet at  once.  Blames  it  on  the  Kaiser.  She  hates  war  and 
militarism.  That's  all  I  can  get  out  of  her,  and  it  is  getting 
late  and  we  must  leave.  Her  future  intrigues  me,  but  does 
not  seem  to  worry  her. 

On  the  way  home  we  stop  in  at  Kaufman's  apartment 
and  have  quite  a  chat  about  pictures  and  things  back  in 
Los  Angeles.    Los  Angeles  seems  very  far  away. 

I  am  invited  to  a  formal  dinner  party  for  the  next  evening 
at  the  home  of  Herr'Werthauer,  one  of  the  most  prominent 
lawyers  in  all  Europe  and  a  chief  of  the  Kaiser  during  the 
war.  The  occasion  for  the  dinner  was  to  celebrate  the  an- 
nouncement of  Werthauer's  engagement  to  his  third  wife. 

His  is  a  wonderful  home  in  the  finest  section  of  Berlin. 
At  the  party  there  are  a  number  of  his  personal  friends,  Pola 
Negri,  Al  Kaufman,  Mrs.  Kaufman,  Robinson,  and  myself. 

There  is  a  Russian  band  playing  native  music  all  through 
the  dinner  and  jazz  music  is  also  being  dispensed  by  two 
orchestras  made  up  of  American  doughboys  who  have  been 
discharged,  but  have  stayed  on  in  Germany. 

For  no  reason  at  all,  I  think  of  the  story  of  Rasputin. 
This  seems  the  sort  of  house  for  elaborate  murders.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  Russian  music  that  is  having  this  effect  on  me. 
There  is  a  huge  marble  staircase  whose  cold  austereness  sug- 
gests all  sorts  of  things  designed  to  send  chills  up  the  spine. 
The  servants  are  so  impressive  and  the  meal  such  a  cere- 
mony that  I  feel  that  I  am  in  a  palace.  The  Russian  folk- 
songs that  are  being  dreamily  whined  from  the  strings  of 
their  peculiar  instruments  have  a  very  weird  effect  and  I 
find  food  and  dining  the  least  interesting  things  here. 

There  is  a  touch  of  mystery,  of  the  exotic,  something  so 
foreign  though  intangible,  that  I  find  myself  searching 
everything  and  everybody,  trying  to  delve  deeper  into  this 
atmosphere. 

We  are  all  introduced,  but  there  are  too  many  people 


122  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

for  me  to  try  to  remember  names.  There  are  herrs,  frau- 
leins,  and  fraus  galore  and  I  find  it  hard  to  keep  even  their 
sex  salutations  correct.  Some  one  is  making  a  long,  formal 
speech  in  German,  and  everybody  is  watching  him  at- 
tentively. 

The  host  arises  and  offers  a  toast  to  his  bride-to-be. 
Everyone  rises  and  drinks  to  their  happiness.  The  party  is 
very  formal  and  I  can  make  nothing  from  the  talk  going  on 
all  about  me.  The  host  is  talking  and  then  all  get  up  again 
with  their  glasses.  Why,  I  don't  know,  but  I  get  up  with 
them. 

At  this  there  is  general  laughter,  and  I  wonder  what 
calamity  has  befallen  me.  I  wonder  if  my  clothes  are  all 
right. 

Then  I  understand.  The  host  is  about  to  toast  me.  He 
does  it  in  very  bad  English,  though  his  gestures  and  tone 
make  it  most  graceful.  He  is  inclined  to  be  somewhat 
pedantic  and  whenever  he  cannot  think  of  the  proper  Eng- 
lish word  he  uses  its  German  equivalent. 

As  the  various  courses  come  the  toasts  are  many.  I  am 
always  about  two  bites  late  in  getting  to  my  feet  with  my 
glass.  After  I  have  been  toasted  about  four  times,  Mrs. 
Kaufman  leans  over  and  whispers,  "You  should  toast  back 
again  to  the  host  and  say  something  nice  about  his  bride- 
to-be." 

I  am  almost  gagged  with  the  stage  fright  that  grips  me. 
If  is  the  custom  to  toast  back  to  the  host  and  here  I  have 
been  gulping  down  all  kinds  of  toasts  without  a  word.  And 
he  had  been  sitting  there  waiting  for  me. 

I  rise  and  hesitate.     "Mr. — " 

I  feel  a  kick  on  the  shins  and  I  hear  Mrs.  Kaufman  whisper 
hoarsely: 

"Herr." 

I  think  she  means  the  bride-to-be.  "Mrs. — "  No,  she 
isn't  that  yet.    Heavens !  this  is  terrible. 

I  plunge  in  fast  and  furious.  "My  very  best  respects  to 
your  future  wife."    As  I  speak  I  look  at  a  young  girl  at  the 


MY  VISIT  TO  GERMANY  123 

head  of  the  table  whom  I  thought  was  the  lucky  woman.  I 
am  all  wrong.    I  sit,  conscious  of  some  horrible  mistake. 

He  bows  and  thanks  me.  Mrs.  Kaufman  scowls  and  says : 
"That's  not  the  woman.    It's  the  one  on  the  other  side." 

I  have  a  suppressed  convulsion  and  almost  die,  and  as  she 
points  out  the  real  bride-to-be  I  find  myself  laughing  hys- 
terically into  my  soup.  Rita  Kaufman  is  laughing  with  me. 
Thank  heaven  for  a  sense  of  humor. 

I  am  so  weak  and  nervous  that  I  am  almost  tempted  to 
leave  at  once.  The  bride-to-be  is  reaching  for  her  glass  to 
return  my  salute,  though  unless  she  thinks  I  am  cross-eyed 
I  don't  see  how  she  knows  I  said  anything  nice  to  her. 

But  she  gets  no  chance  to  speak.  There  is  launched  a 
long-winded  pedantic  speech  from  the  host,  who  says  that 
on  such  rare  occasions  as  this  it  is  customary  to  uncork  the 
best  in  the  cellar.  This  point  gets  over  in  great  shape  and 
everybody  is  smiling. 

I  even  feel  myself  growing  radiant.  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression that  the  best  had  already  been  served.  Didn't 
know  he  was  holding  back  anything.  With  the  promise  of 
better  wine  I  am  tempted  to  trying  another  toast  to  the 
bride-to-be. 


XIII 

I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON 

THE  first  night  in  Paris  after  our  return  from  Germany 
we  dined  at  Pioccardi's,  then  walked  up  to  the  arches  of 
the  old  gates  of  Paris.  Our  intention  was  to  visit  the  Louvre 
and  see  the  statue  of  Venus  de  Milo,  but  it  only  got  as  far 
as  intention. 

We  drifted  into  the  Montmartre  district  and  stopped  in 
Le  Rate  Mort,  one  of  its  most  famous  restaurants.  As  it  is 
very  early  in  the  evening,  there  are  very  few  people  about, 
one  reason  why  I  picked  out  this  place,  which  later  in  the 
night  becomes  the  center  of  hectic  revelry. 

Passing  our  table  is  a  striking-looking  girl  with  bobbed 
blond  hair,  shadowing  beautiful,  delicate  features  of  pale 
coloring  and  soft,  strange  eyes  of  a  violet  blue.  Her  passing 
is  momentary,  but  she  is  the  most  striking-looking  girl  I 
have  seen  in  Europe. 

Although  there  are  but  few  people  here,  I  am  soon  recog- 
nized. The  French  are  so  demonstrative.  They  wave, 
"Hello,  Chariot!" 

I  am  indifferent.  I  smile  mechanically.  I  am  tired.  I 
shall  go  to  bed  early.    I  order  champagne. 

The  bobbed-hair  one  is  sitting  at  a  table  near  us.  She 
interests  me.  But  she  doesn't  turn  so  that  I  can  see  her 
face.  She  is  sitting  facing  her  friend,  a  dark,  Spanish-looking 
girl. 

J  wish  she'd  turn.     She  has  a  beautiful  profile,  but  I 


I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON        125 

would  like  to  see  her  full  face  again.  She  looked  so  lovely 
when  she  passed  me.  I  recall  that  ghost  of  a  smile  that 
hovered  near  her  mouth,  showing  just  a  bit  of  beautiful, 
even,  white  teeth. 

The  orchestra  is  starting  and  dancers  are  swinging  onto 
the  floor.  The  two  girls  rise  and  join  the  dance.  I  will 
watch  closely  now  and  perhaps  get  another  flash  at  her  when 
she  whirls  by. 

There  is  something  refined  and  distinguished  about  the 
little  girl.  She  is  different.  Doesn't  belong  here.  I  am 
watching  her  very  closely,  though  she  has  never  once  looked 
my  way.  I  like  this  touch  of  the  unusual  in  Montmartre. 
Still  she  may  be  just  clever. 

She  is  passing  me  in  the  dance  and  I  get  a  full  view  of  her 
face.  One  of  real  beauty,  with  a  sensitive  mouth,  smiling 
at  her  friend  and  giving  a  complete  view  of  the  beautiful 
teeth.  Her  face  is  most  expressive.  The  music  stops  and 
they  sit  at  their  table. 

I  notice  that  there  is  nothing  on  their  table.  They  are 
not  drinking.  This  is  strange,  here.  Nor  are  there  sand- 
wiches or  coffee.  I  wonder  who  they  are.  That  girl  is  some- 
body.   I  know  it. 

She  gets  up  as  the  orchestra  plays  a  few  strains  of  a  plain- 
tive Russian  thing.  She  is  singing  the  song.  Fascinating! 
An  artist !    Why  is  she  here  ?    I  must  know  her. 

The  song  itself  is  plaintive,  elemental,  with  the  insinuating 
nuances  that  are  vital  to  Russian  music.  The  orchestra, 
with  the  violins  and  cellos  predominant,  is  playing  haunt- 
ingly,  weaving  a  foreign  exotic  spell. 

She  has  poise,  grace,  and  is  compelling  attention  even  in 
this  place.  There  comes  a  bit  of  melancholy  in  the  song 
and  she  sings  it  as  one  possessed,  giving  it  drama,  pathos. 
Suddenly  there  is  a  change.  The  music  leaps  to  wild  aban- 
don. She  is  with  it.  She  tosses  her  head  like  a  wild  Hun- 
garian gypsy  and  gives  fire  to  every  note.  But  almost  as 
it  began,  the  abandon  is  over.  With  wistful  sweetness,  she 
is  singing  plaintively  again. 


126  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

She  is  touching  every  human  emotion  in  her  song.  At 
times  she  is  tossing  away  care,  then  gently  wooing,  an 
elusive  strain  that  is  almost  fairylike,  that  crescendos  into 
tragedy,  going  into  a  crashing  climax  that  diminishes  into 
an  ending,  searching,  yearning  and  wistfully  sad. 

Her  personality  is  written  into  every  mood  of  the  song. 
She  is  at  once  fine,  courageous,  pathetic  and  wild.  She 
finished  to  an  applause  that  reflected  the  indifference  of  the 
place.  In  spots  it  was  spontaneous  and  insistent.  In  others 
little  attention  was  paid  to  her.    She  is  wasted  here. 

But  she  cares  not.  In  her  face  you  can  see  that  she  gets 
her  applause  in  the  song  itself.  It  was  glorious,  just  to  be 
singing  with  heart,  soul  and  voice.  She  smiles  faintly,  then 
sits  down  modestly. 

I  knew  it.  She  is  Russian.  She  has  everything  to  suggest 
it.  Full  of  temperament,  talent  and  real  emotional  ability, 
hidden  away  here  in  Le  Rate  Mort.  What  a  sensation  she 
would  be  in  America  with  a  little  advertising.  This  is  just 
a  thought,  but  all  sorts  of  schemes  present  themselves  to  me. 

I  can  see  her  in  "The  Follies"  with  superb  dressing  and 
doing  just  the  song  she  had  done  then.  I  did  not  under- 
stand a  word  of  it,  but  I  felt  every  syllable.  Art  is  universal 
and  needs  no  language.  She  has  everything  from  gentle- 
ness to  passion  and  a  startling  beauty.  I  am  applauding 
too  much,  but  she  looks  and  smiles,  so  I  am  repaid. 

They  dance  again,  and  while  they  are  gone  I  call  the 
waiter  and  have  him  explain  to  the  manager  that  I  would 
like  to  be  presented  to  her.  The  manager  introduces  her 
and  I  invite  her  to  my  table.  She  sits  there  with  us,  while 
her  companion,  the  dark  girl,  does  a  solo  dance. 

She  talks  charmingly  and  without  restraint.  She  speaks 
three  languages — Russian,  French,  and  English.  Her  father 
was  a  Russian  general  during  the  Czar's  reign.  I  can  see 
now  where  she  gets  her  imperious  carriage. 

"Are  you  a  Bolshevik?" 

She  flushes  as  I  ask  it,  and  her  lips  pout  prettily  as  she 
struggles  with  English.    She  seems  all  afire. 


MY  FAVORITE   CLOSE-UP 


I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON        127 

"No,  they  are  wicked.  Bolshevik  man,  he's  very  bad." 
Her  eyes  flash  as  she  speaks. 

"Then  you  are  bourgeoisie?" 

"No,  but  not  a  Bolshevik."  Her  voice  suggests  a  tre- 
mendous vitality,  though  her  vocabulary  is  limited.  "Bol- 
.shevik  good  idea  for  the  mind,  but  not  for  practice." 

"Has  it  had  a  fair  opportunity?"  I  ask  her. 

"Plenty.  My  father,  my  mother,  my  brother  all  in  Rus- 
sia and  very  poor.  Mother  is  Bolshevik,  father  bourgeoisie. 
Bolshevik  man  very  impudent  to  me.  I  want  to  kill  him. 
He  insult  me.  What  can  I  do?  I  escape.  Bolshevik  good 
idea,  but  no  good  for  life." 

"What  of  Lenin?" 

"Very  clever  man.  He  tried  hard  for  Bolshevik — but  no 
good  for  everybody — just  in  the  head." 

I  learn  that  she  was  educated  in  a  convent  and  that  she 
had  lost  all  trace  of  her  people.  She  earns  her  living  singing 
here.  She  has  been  to  the  movies,  but  has  never  seen  me. 
She  "is  go  first  chance  because  I  am  nice  man." 

I  ask  her  if  she  would  like  to  go  into  moving  pictures. 
Her  eyes  light  up.  "If  I  get  opportunity  I  know  I  make 
success.  But " — she  curls  her  mouth  prettily — "it's  difficult 
to  get  opportunity." 

She  is  just  twenty  years  old  and  has  been  in  the  cafe  for 
two  weeks,  coming  there  from  Turkey,  to  which  country 
she  fled  following  her  escape  from  Russia. 

I  explain  that  she  must  have  photographic  tests  made  and 
that  I  will  try^  to  get  her  a  position  in  America.  She  puts 
everything  into  her  eyes  as  she  thanks  me.  She  looks  like 
a  combination  of  Mary  Pickford  and  Pola  Negri  plus  her 
own  distinctive  beauty  and  personality.  Her  name  is 
"Skaya."  I  write  her  full  name  and  address  in  my  book 
and  promise  to  do  all  I  can  for  her.  And  I  mean  to.  We  say 
"Good  night,"  and  she  says  she  feels  that  I  will  do  what  I 
say.    How  has  she  kept  hidden? 

Due  at  Sir  Philip  Sassoon's  for  a  garden  party  the  next 

day,  I  decide  to  go  there  in  an  airplane  and  I  leave  the  Le 
11 


128  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Bourget  aerodrome  in  Paris  in  a  plane  of  La  Compagnie  des 
Messageries  Aeriennes,  and  at  special  request  the  pilot 
landed  me  at  Lympe  in  Kent  and  I  thereby  avoided  the 
crowd  that  would  have  been  on  hand  in  London. 

It  was  quite  thrilling  and  I  felt  that  I  made  a  very  effective 
entrance  to  the  party. 

And  what  a  delightful  retreat !  All  the  charm  of  an  Eng- 
lish country  home,  and  Sir  Philip  is  a  perfect  host.  I  ^et 
English  food  and  treatment.  I  have  a  perfect  rest,  with  no 
duties,  and  entertainment  as  I  desire  it.  A  day  and  a  half 
that  are  most  pleasant ! 

Next  day  there  is  to  be  a  ceremonial  in  the  schooUiouse, 
when  a  memorial  is  to  be  unveiled.  It  is  in  honor  of  the 
boys  of  the  town  who  had  fallen.  There  are  mothers,  fathers, 
and  many  old  people,  some  of  them  old  in  years,  others  aged 
by  the  trials  of  the  war. 

The  simple  affair  is  most  impressive  and  the  streets  are 
crowded  on  our  way.  I  was  to  blame  for  an  unhappy  con- 
trast. Outside  people  were  shouting, ' '  Hooray  for  Charlie ! " 
while  inside  souls  were  hushed  in  grief. 

Such  a  discordant  note.  I  wished  I  had  not  been  so  promi- 
nent. I  wanted  everyone  to  bow  in  respect  to  these  dead. 
The  crowds  did  not  belong  outside. 

And  inside,  on  the  little  children's  faces,  I  could  see  con- 
flicting emotions.  There  is  the  reverence  for  the  dead  and 
yet  there  is  eagerness  as  they  steal  glances  at  me.  I  wish  I 
hadn't  come.    I  feel  that  I  am  the  disturbing  element. 

From  the  school  Sir  Philip  and  I  went  to  the  Star  and 
Garter  hospital  for  wounded  soldiers.  Sheer  tragedy  was 
here. 

Young  men  suffering  from  spinal  wounds,  some  of  them 
with  legs  withered,  some  suffering  from  shell  shock.  No 
hope  for  them,  yet  they  smiled. 

There  was  one  whose  hands  were  all  twisted  and  he  was 
painting  signs  with  a  brush  held  between  his  teeth.  I  looked 
at  the  signs.  They  were  mottoes :  "Never  Saj'' Die."  "Are 
We  Downhearted?"    A  superman. 


I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON        129 

Here  is  a  lad  who  must  take  an  anaesthetic  whenever  his 
nails  are  cut  because  of  his  twisted  limbs.  And  he  is  smiling 
and  to  all  appearances  happy.  The  capacity  that  God  gives 
for  suffering  is  so  tremendous,  I  marvel  at  their  endurance. 

I  inquire  about  food  and  general  conditions. ,  They  sug- 
gest that  the  food  could  be  better.    This  is  attended  to. 

We  are  received  politely  and  with  smiles  from  the  crippled 
lads  who  are  crippled  in  flesh  only.  Their  spirit  is  boisterous. 
I  feel  a  puny  atom  as  they  shout,  "Good  luck  to  you, 
Charlie." 

I  can't  talk.  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  say.  I  merely 
smile  and  nod  and  shake  hands  whenever  this  is  possible. 
I  sign  autographs  for  as  many  as  ask  and  I  ask  them  to  give 
me  their  autographs.    I  honestly  want  them. 

One  jovially  says,  "Sure,  and  Bill  will  give  you  one,  too." 
There  is  an  uproar  of  laughter  and  BiU  laughs  just  as  loud 
as  the  rest.    Bill  has  no  arms. 

But  he  bests  them.  He  will  sign  at  that.  And  he  does. 
With  his  teeth.  Such  is  their  spirit.  What  is  to  become  of 
them?    That  is  up  to  you  and  me. 

Back  to  Sir  Philip's,  very  tired  and  depressed.  We  dine 
late  and  I  go  to  my  room  and  read  Waldo  Frank's  Dark 
Mothers.  The  next  day  there  is  tennis  and  music  and  in  the 
evening  I  leave  for  London,  where  I  am  to  meet  H.  G. 
Wells  and  go  with  him  to  his  country  home. 

I  am  looking  forward  to  this  Saturday,  Sunday,  and 
Monday  as  an  intellectual  holiday.  I  meet  H.  G.  at  White- 
hall and  he  is  driving  his  own  car.  He  is  a  very  good  chauf- 
feur, too. 

We  talk  politics  and  discuss  the  Irish  settlement  and  I 
tell  him  of  my  trip  to  Germany.  That  leads  to  a  discussion 
of  the  depreciation  in  the  value  of  the  mark.  What  will  be 
the  outcome?  Wells  thinks  financial  collapse.  He  thinks 
that  marks  issued  as  they  are  in  Germany  will  be  worthless. 

I  am  feeling  more  intimate  and  closer  to  him.  There  is 
no  strain  in  talking,  though  I  am  still  a  bit  self-conscious 
and  find  myself  watching  myself  closely. 


130  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

We  are  out  in  the  country,  near  Lady  Warwick's  estate, 
and  H.  G.  tells  me  how  the  beautiful  place  is  going  to  seed, 
that  parts  of  it  are  being  divided  into  lots  and  sold. 

The  estate,  with  its  live  stock,  is  a  show  place.  It  is 
breeding  time  for  the  deer  and  from  the  road  we  can  hear 
the  stags  bellowing.  H.  G.  tells  me  they  are  dangerous  at 
this  time  of  the  year. 

At  the  gate  of  the  Wells  estate  a  young  lad  of  ten  greets 
us  with  a  jovial  twinkling  of  the  eye  and  a  brisk  manner. 
There  is  no  mistaking  him.  He  is  H.  G.'s  son.  There  is  the 
same  molding  of  the  structure  and  the  same  rounded  face 
and  eyes.    H.  G.  must  have  looked  that  way  at  his  age. 

"Hello,  dad,"  as  he  jumps  on  the  running  board. 

"This  is  Charlie,"  H.  G.  introduces  me. 

He  takes  my  grip.  "How  do?"  and  I  make  a  bromide 
about  what  a  fine  boy  he  is  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mrs.  Wells  is  a  charming  little  lady  with  keen,  soft  eyes 
that  are  always  smiling  and  apparently  searching  and  seek- 
ing something.  A  real  gentlewoman,  soft  voiced,  also  with 
humorous  lines  playing  around  her  mouth. 

Everyone  seems  busy  taking  me  into  the  house,  and  once 
there  H.  G.  takes  me  all  over  it,  to  my  room,  the  dining  room, 
the  sitting  room  and,  an  extra  privilege,  to  his  study.  "My 
workshop,"  he  calls  it. 

"Here's  where  the  great  events  in  the  history  of  the  world 
took  place?" 

He  smiles  and  says  "yes."  The  Outline  of  History  was 
born  here. 

The  room  is  not  yet  finished,  and  it  is  being  decorated 
around  the  fireplace  by  paintings  made  by  himself  and  wife. 
"I  paint  a  bit,"  he  explains.  There  is  also  some  tapestry 
woven  by  his  mother. 

"Here  is  a  place  if  you  want  to  escape  when  the  strain  is 
too  much  for  you.  Come  here  and  relax."  I  felt  that  this 
was  his  greatest  hospitality.  But  I  never  used  the  room. 
I  had  a  feeling  about  that,  too. 

The  study  is  simple  and  very  spare  of  furniture.    There  is 


I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON        131 

an  old-fashioned  desk  and  I  get  the  general  impression  of 
books,  but  I  can  remember  but  one,  the  dictionary.  Rare 
observation  on  my  part  to  notice  nothing  but  a  dictionary, 
and  this  was  so  huge  as  it  stood  on  his  desk  that  I  couldn't 
miss  it. 

There  is  a  lovely  view  from  the  house  of  the  countryside, 
with  wide  stretches  of  land  and  lovely  trees,  where  deer  are 
roaming  around  unafraid. 

Mrs.  Wells  is  getting  lunch  and  we  have  it  outdoors. 
Junior  is  there,  the  boy — I  call  him  that  already.  Their 
conversation  is  rapid,  flippant.  Father  and  son  have  a 
profound  analytical  discussion  about  the  sting  of  a  wasp  as 
one  of  the  insects  buzzed  around  the  table. 

It  is  a  bit  strange  to  me  and  I  cannot  get  into  the  spirit 
of  it,  though  it  is  very  funny.  I  just  watch  and  smile.  Junior 
is  very  witty.  He  tops  his  father  with  jokes,  but  I  sense  the 
fact  that  H.  G.  is  playing  up  to  him.  There  is  a  twinkle  in 
H.  G.'s  eye.    He  is  proud  of  his  boy.    He  should  be. 

After  lunch  we  walk  about  the  grounds  and  I  doze  most 
of  the  afternoon  in  the  summerhouse.  They  leave  me  alone 
and  I  have  my  nap  out. 

A  number  of  friends  arrive  later  in  the  evening  and  we  are 
introduced  all  around.  Most  of  these  are  literary,  and  the 
discussion  is  learned.  St.  John  Ervine,  the  dramatist  and 
author  of  John  Ferguson,  came  in  later  in  the  evening. 

Ervine  discusses  the  possibility  of  synchronizing  the  voice 
with  motion  pictures.  He  is  very  much  interested.  I  ex- 
plain that  I  don't  think  the  voice  is  necessary,  that  it  spoils 
the  art  as  much  as  painting  statuary.  I  would  as  soon  rouge 
marble  cheeks.  Pictures  are  pantomimic  art.  We  might 
as  well  have  the  stage.  There  would  be  nothing  left  to  the 
imagination. 

Another  son  comes  in.  He  is  more  like  his  mother.  We 
all  decide  to  play  charades  and  I  am  selected  as  one  of  the 
actors.  I  play  Orlando,  the  wrestler,  getting  a  lot  of  fun 
through  using  a  coal  hod  as  a  helmet.  Then  Noah's  Ark, 
with  Junior  imitating  the  different  animals  going  into  the 


132  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

ark,  using  walking  sticks  as  horns  for  a  stag,  and  putting  a 
hat  on  the  end  of  the  stick  for  a  camel,  and  making  elephants 
and  many  other  animals  through  adroit,  quick  changes.  I 
played  old  Noah  and  opened  an  umbrella  and  looked  at  the 
sky.    Then  I  went  into  the  ark  and  they  guessed. 

Then  H.  G.  Wells  did  a  clog  dance,  and  did  it  very  well. 
We  talked  far  into  the  night,  and  I  marveled  at  Wells's 
vitality.  We  played  many  mental  guessing  games  and  Junior 
took  all  honors. 

I  was  awakened  next  morning  by  a  chorus  outside  my  door : 
"We  want  Charlie  Chaplin."  This  was  repeated  many 
times.    They  had  been  waiting  breakfast  half  an  hour  for  me. 

After  breakfast  we  played  a  new  game  of  H.  G.'s  own 
invention.  Everyone  was  in  it  and  we  played  it  in  the  bam. 
It  was  a  combination  of  handball  and  tennis,  with  rules 
made  by  H.  G.    Very  exciting  and  good  fun. 

Then  a  walk  to  Lady  Warwick's  estate.  As  I  walk  I  recall 
how  dramatic  it  had  sounded  last  night  as  I  was  in  bed  to 
hear  the  stags  bellowing,  evidently  their  cry  of  battle. 

The  castle,  with  beautiful  gardens  going  to  seed,  seemed 
very  sad,  yet  its  ruins  assumed  a  beauty  for  me.  I  liked  it 
better  that  way.    Ruins  are  majestic. 

H.  G.  explains  that  everyone  about  is  land  poor.  It  takes 
on  a  fantastic  beauty  for  me,  this  cultivation  of  centuries  now 
going  to  seed,  beautiful  in  its  very  tragedy. 

Home  for  tea,  and  in  the  evening  I  teach  them  baseball. 
Here  is  my  one  chance  to  shine.  It  is  funny  to  see  H.  G. 
try  to  throw  a  curve  and  being  caught  at  first  base  after 
hitting  a  grounder  to  the  pitcher.  H.  G.  pitched,  and  his 
son  caught.  As  a  baseball  player  H.  G.  is  a  great  writer. 
Dinner  that  night  is  perfect,  made  more  enjoyable  for  our 
strenuous  exercise.  As  I  retire  that  night  I  think  of  what 
a  wonderful  holiday  I  am  having. 

Next  day  I  must  leave  at  2.30  p.m.,  but  in  the  morning 
H.  G.  and  I  take  a  walk  and  visit  an  old  country  church 
built  in  the  eleventh  century.  A  man  is  working  on  a  tomb- 
stone in  the  churchyard,  engraving  an  epitaph. 


I  FLY  FROM  PARIS  TO  LONDON        133 

H.  G.  points  out  the  influence  of  the  different  lords  of  the 
manor  on  the  art  changes  of  different  periods.  Here  the 
famiHes  of  Lady  Warwick  and  other  notable  people  are 
buried.  The  tombstones  show  the  influence  of  the  sculpture 
of  all  periods. 

We  go  to  the  top  of  the  church  and  view  the  surrounding 
country  and  then  back  home  for  lunch.  My  things  are  all 
packed  and  H.  G.  and  his  son  see  me  off.  H.  G.  reminds 
me  not  to  forget  another  engagement  to  dine  with  him  and 
Chaliapin,  the  famous  Russian  barytone. 

As  I  speed  into  town  I  am  wondering  if  Wells  wants  to 
know  me  or  whether  he  wants  me  to  know  him.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  now  I  have  met  Wells,  really  met  him,  more  than 
I've  met  anyone  in  Europe.    It's  so  worth  while. 


XIV 

FAREWELLS   TO    PARIS   AND    LONDON 

I  HAD  promised  to  attend  the  primiire  showing  of  "The 
Kid"  in  Paris,  and  I  went  back  to  the  French  capital  as 
I  came,  via  airplane.  The  trip  was  uneventful,  and  on  land- 
ing and  going  to  my  hotel  I  find  a  message  from  Doug 
Fairbanks.  He  and  Mary  had  arrived  in  Paris  and  were 
stopping  at  the  Crillon,  They  asked  me  over  for  a  chat 
but  I  was  too  tired.  Doug  promised  to  attend  the  pre- 
midre  at  the  Trocadero  Theater. 

During  the  afternoon  there  came  250  souvenir  programs 
to  be  autographed.  These  were  to  be  sold  that  night  for 
100  francs  each. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  theater  via  the  back  way, 
but  there  was  no  escape.  It  was  the  biggest  demonstration 
I  had  yet  seen.  For  several  blocks  around  the  crowds 
were  jammed  in  the  streets  and  the  gendarmes  had  their 
hands  full. 

Paris  had  declared  a  holiday  for  this  occasion,  and  as  the 
proceeds  of  the  entertainment  were  to  be  given  to  the  fund 
for  devastated  France  the  elite  of  the  country  were  there. 
I  am  introduced  to  Ambassador  Herrick,  then  shown  to 
my  box  and  introduced  to  the  Ministers  of  the  French 
Cabinet. 

I  do  not  attempt  to  remember  names,  but  the  following 
list  has  been  preserved  for  me  by  my  secretary : 

M.  Menard,  who  attended  on  behalf  of  President  Milla- 
rand;  M.  Jusserand,  M.  Herbette,  M.  Careron,  M.  Loucheur, 


FAREWELLS  TO  PARIS  AND  LONDON  ^135 

Minister  of  the  'Liberated  Regions;  M.  Hermite,  Col.  and 
Mrs.  H.  H.  Harjes,  Miss  Hope  Harjes,  Mr.  and  Mrs.Ridgeley 
Carter,  Mrs.  Arthur  James,  Mrs.  W.  K.  Vanderbilt,  Mrs. 
Rutherford  Stuyvesant,  Walter  Berry,  M.  de  Errazu, 
Marquis  de  Vallambrosa,  Mile.  Cecile  Sorel,  Robert 
Hostetter,  M.  Byron-Kuhn,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  G.  Loeb, 
Florence  O'Neill,  M.  Henri  Lettelier,  M.  Georges  Carpentier, 
Paul  C.  Otey,  Mr.  arid  Mrs.  George  Kenneth  End,  Prince 
George  of  Greece,  Princess  Xenia,  Prince  Christopher,  Lady 
Sarah  Wilson,  Mrs.  Elsa  Maxwell,  Princess  Sutzo,  Vice- 
Admiral  and  Mrs.  Albert  P.  Niblack,  Comte  and  Comtesse 
Cardelli,  Duchess  de  Talleyrand,  Col.  and  Mrs.  N.  D. 
Jay,  Col.  Bunau  Varila,  Marquise  de  Talleyrand-Perigord, 
Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Chambrun,  Miss  Viola  Cross, 
Miss  Elsie  De  Wolf,  Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Dampierre, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Theodore  Rousseau. 

My  box  is  draped  with  American  and  British  flags,  and 
the  applause  is  so  insistent  that  I  find  I  am  embarrassed. 
But  there  is  a  delicious  tingle  to  it  and  I  am  feeling  now 
what  Doug  felt  when  his  "Three  Musketeers"  was  shown. 
The  programs  which  I  autographed  during  the  afternoon 
are  sold  immediately  and  the  audience  wants  more.  I  auto- 
graph as  many  more  as  possible, 

I  am  photographed  many  times  and  I  sit  in  a  daze  through 
most  of  it,  at  one  time  going  back  stage,  though  I  don't 
know  why,  except  that  I  was  photoed  back  there,  too. 

The  picture  was  shown,  but  I  did  not  see  much  of  it. 
There  was  too  much  to  be  seen  in  that  audience. 

At  the  end  of  the  picture  there  came  a  messenger  from  the 
Minister:  "Would  I  come  to  his  box  and  be  decorated?" 
I  almost  fell  out  of  my  box. 

I  grew  sick.  What  would  I  say?  There  was  no  chance 
to  prepare.  I  had  visions  of  the  all-night  preparation  for 
my  speech  in  Southampton.  This  would  be  infinitely  worse. 
I  couldn't  even  think  clearly.  Why  do  I  pick  out  stunts 
like  that?  I  might  have  known  that  something  would 
happen. 


136  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

But  the  floor  would  not  open  up  for  me  to  sink  through 
and  there  was  no  one  in  this  friendly  audience  who  could 
help  me  in  my  dilemma,  and  the  messenger  was  waiting 
politely,  though  I  imagined  just  a  bit  impatiently,  so,  sum- 
moning what  courage  I  had,  I  went  to  the  box  with  about 
the  same  feeling  as  a  man  approaching  the  guillotine. 

I  am  presented  to  everybody.  He  makes  a  speech.  It 
is  translated  for  me,  but  very  badly.  While  he  was  speaking 
I  tried  to  think  of  something  neat  and  appropriate,  but  all 
my  thoughts  seemed  trite.  I  finally  realized  that  he  was 
finished  and  I  merely  said,  "Merci,"  which,  after  all,  was 
about  as  good  as  I  could  have  done. 

And  believe  me,  I  meant  "Merci"  both  in  French  and  in 
English. 

But  the  applause  is  continuing.  I  must  say  something, 
so  I  stand  up  in  the  box  and  make  a  speech  about  the  motion- 
picture  industry  and  tell  them  that  it  is  a  privilege  for  us 
to  make  a  presentation  for  such  a  cause  as  that  of  devastated 
France. 

Somehow  they  liked  it,  or  made  me  believe  they  did. 
There  was  a  tremendous  demonstration  and  several  bearded 
men  kissed  me  before  I  could  get  out.  But  I  was  blocked 
in  and  the  crowd  wouldn't  leave.  At  last  the  lights  were 
turned  out,  but  still  they  lingered.  Then  there  came  an  old 
watchman  who  said  he  covld  take  us  through  an  unknown 
passage  that  led  to  the  street. 

We  followed  him  and  managed  to  escape,  though  there 
was  still  a  tremendous  crowd  to  break  through  in  the 
street.  Outside  I  meet  Cami,  who  congratulates  me, 
and  together  we  go  to  the  Hotel  Crillon  to  see  Doug  and 
Mary. 

Mary  and  Doug  are  very  kind  in  congratulating  me, 
and  I  tell  them  of  my  terrible  conduct  diuing  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  decoration.  I  knew  that  I  was  wholly  inadequate 
for  the  occasion.  I  keep  mumbling  of  my  faux  pas  and 
they  try  to  make  me  forget  my  misery  by  telling  me  that 
General  Pershing  is  in  the  next  room. 


FAREWELLS  TO  PARIS  AND  LONDON  137 

I'll  bet  the  general  never  went  through  a  battle  like  the 
one  I  passed  through  that  night. 

Then  they  wanted  to  see  the  decoration,  which  reminded 
me  that  I  had  not  yet  looked  at  it  myself.  So  I  unrolled 
the  parchment  and  Doug  read  aloud  the  magic  words  from 
the  Minister  of  Instruction  of  the  Public  and  Beaux  Arts 
which  made  Charles  Chaplin,  dramatist  artist,  an  Officier 
de  Uinstruction  Publique. 

We  sit  there  until  three  in  the  morning,  discussing  it, 
and  then  I  go  back  to  my  hotel  tired  but  rather  happy. 
That  night  was  worth  all  the  trip  to  Europe. 

At  the  hotel  there  was  a  note  from  Skaya.  She  had  been 
to  the  theater  to  see  the  picture.  She  sat  in  the  gallery 
and  saw  "The  Kid,"  taking  time  off  from  her  work. 

Her  note : 

I  saw  picture.  You  are  a  grand  man.  My  heart  is  joy.  You  must 
be  happy.     I  laugh — I  cry.  Skaya. 

This  little  message  was  not  the  least  of  my  pleasures 
that  night. 

Elsie  De  Wolf  was  my  hostess  at  luncheon .  next  day  at 
the  Villa  Trianon,  Versailles,  a  most  interesting  and  enjoy- 
able occasion,  where  I  met  some  of  the  foremost  poets  and 
artists. 

Returning  to  Paris,  I  meet  Henry  Wales,  and  we  take  a 
trip  through  the  Latin  Quarter  together.  That  night  I 
dine  with  Cami,  Georges  Carpentier,  and  Henri  LeteUier. 
Carpentier  asks  for  an  autograph  and  I  draw  him  a  picture 
of  my  hat,  shoes,  cane,  and  mustache,  my  implements  of 
trade.  Carpentier,  not  to  be  outdone,  draws  for  me  a  huge 
fist  incased  in  a  boxing  glove. 

I  am  due  back  in  England  next  day  to  lunch  with  Sir 
Philip  Sassoon  and  to  meet  Llpyd  George.  Lord  and  Lady 
Rock-Savage,  Lady  Diana  Manners,  and  many  other  promi- 
nent people  are  to  be  among  the  guests,  and  I  am  looking 
forward  to  the  luncheon  eagerly. 

We  are  going  back  by  airplane,  though  Carl  Robinson 


138  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

lets  me  know  that  he  prefers  some  other  mode  of  travel. 
On  this  occasion  I  am  nervous  and  I  say  frequently  that  I 
feel  as  though  something  is  going  to  happen.  This  does 
not  make  a  hit  with  Carl. 

We  figure  that  by  leaving  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning 
we  can  make  London  by  one  o'clock,  which  will  give  me 
plenty  of  time  to  keep  my  engagement. 

But  we  hadn't  been  up  long  before  we  were  lost  in  the 
fog  over  the  Channel  and  were  forced  to  make  a  landing  on 
the  French  coast,  causing  a  delay  of  two  hours.  But  we 
finally  made  it,  though  I  was  two  hours  late  for  my  engage- 
ment, and  the  thought  of  keeping  Lloyd  George  and  those 
other  people  waiting  was  ghastly. 

Our  landing  in  England  was  made  at  the  Croydon  aero- 
drome, and  there  was  a  big  automobile  waiting  outside, 
around  which  were  several  hundred  people.  The  aero- 
drome officials,  assuming  that  the  car  was  for  me,  hustled 
me  into  it  and  it  was  driven  off. 

But  it  was  not  mine,  and  I  found  that  I  was  not  being 
driven  to  the  Ritz,  but  to  the  Majestic  Theater  in  Clapham. 

The  chauffeur  wore  a  mustache,  and,  though  he  looked 
familiar,  I  did  not  recognize  him.  But  very  dramatically 
he  removed  the  mustache. 

"I  am  Castleton  Knight.  A  long  time  ago  you  promised 
me  to  visit  my  theater.  I  have  concluded  that  the  only 
way  to  get  you  there  is  to  kidnap  you.  So  kindly  consider 
yourself  kidnaped." 

I  couldn't  help  but  laugh,  even  as  I  thought  of  Lloyd 
George,  and  I  assured  Mr.  Knight  that  he  was  the  first  one 
who  had  ever  kidnaped  me.  So  we  went  to  the  theater, 
and  I  stayed  an  hour  and  surprised  both  myself  and  the 
audience  by  making  a  speech. 

Back  at  my  hotel  Sir  Philip  meets  me  and  tells  me  that 
Lloyd  George  couldn't  wait,  that  he  had  a  most  important 
engagement  at  four  o'clock.  I  explained  the  airplane  situ- 
ation to  Sir  Philip  and  he  was  very  kind.  I  feel  that  it  was 
most  unfortunate,  for  it  was  my  only  opportunity  to  meet 


s>      ^ 


FAREWELLS  TO  PARIS  AND  LONDON  139 

Lloyd  George  in  these  times,  and  I  love  to  meet  interesting 
personages.  I  would  like  to  meet  Lenin,  Trotzky,  and  the 
Kaiser. 

This  is  to  be  my  last  night  in  England,  and  I  have  promised 
to  dine  and  spend  the  evening  with  my  Cousin  Aubrey. 
One  feels  dutiful  to  one's  cousin. 

I  also  discover  that  this  is  the  day  I  am  to  meet  Chaliapin 
and  H.  G.  Wells.  I  phone  H.  G.  and  explain  that  this  is 
my  last  day,  and  of  my  promise  to  my  cousin.  H.  G.  is 
very  nice.  He  understands.  You  can  only  do  these  things 
with  such  people. 

My  cousin  calls  for  me  at  dusk  in  a  taxi  and  we  ride  to 
his  home  in  Bayswater.  London  is  so  beautiful  at  this  hour, 
when  the  first  lights  are  being  turned  on,  and  each  light  to 
me  is  symbolical.  They  all  mean  life,  and  I  wish  some- 
times I  could  peer  behind  all  these  lighted  windows. 

Reaching  Aubrey's  home,  I  notice  a  ntunber  of  people 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street  standing  in  the  shadows. 
They  must  be  reporters,  I  think,  and  am  slightly  annoyed 
that  they  should  find  me  even  here.  But  my  cousin  explains 
hesitatingly  that  they  are  just  friends  of  his  waiting  for  a 
look  at  me.  I  feel  mean  and  naughty  about  this,  as  I  recall 
that  I  had  requested  him  not  to  make  a  party  of  my  visit. 

I  just  wanted  a  family  affair,  with  no  visitors,  and  these 
simple  souls  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  were  respecting 
my  wishes.  I  relent  and  tell  Aubrey  to  ask  them  over, 
anyway.  They  are  all  quite  nice,  simple  tradesmen,  clerks, 
etc.  ♦ 

Aubrey  has  a  saloon,  or  at  least  a  hotel,  as  he  calls  it, 
in  the  vicinity  of  Bayswater,  and  later  in  the  evening  I 
suggest  that  we  go  there  and  take  his  friends  with  us. 
Aubrey  is  shocked. 

"No,  not  around  to  my  place."  Then  they  all  demur. 
They  don't  wish  to  intrude.  I  like  this.  Then  I  insist. 
They  weaken.    He  weakens. 

We  go  to  a  pub.  in  a  very  respectable  part  of  Bayswater 
and  enter  the  bar.    The  place  is  doing  a  flourishing  business. 


I40  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

There  are  a  number  of  pictures  of  my  brother  Syd  and  my- 
self all  over  the  walls,  in  character  and  straight.  The  place 
is  packed  to-night.    It  must  be  a  very  popular  resort. 

"What  will  you  have?"  I  feel  breezy.  "Give  the  whole 
saloon  a  drink." 

Aubrey  whispers,  "Don't  let  them  know  you  are  here." 
He  says  this  for  me. 

But  I  insist.  "Introduce  me  to  all  of  them."  I  must 
get  him  more  custom. 

He  starts  quietly  whispering  to  some  of  his  very  personal 
friends:    "This  is  my  cousin.    Don't  say  a  word." 

I  speak  up  rather  loudly.  "Give  them  all  a  drink."  I 
feel  a  bit  vulgar  to-night.  I  want  to  spend  money  like  a 
drunken  sailor.  Even  the  customers  are  shocked.  They 
hardly  believe  that  it's  Charlie  Chaplin,  who  always  avoids 
publicity,  acting  in  this  vulgar  way. 

I  am  sure  that  some  of  them  don't  believe  despite  many 
assurances.  A  stunt  of  my  cousin's.  But  they  drink, 
reverently  and  with  reserve,  and  then  they  bid  me  good 
night,  and  we  depart  quietly,  leaving  Bayswater  as  respect- 
able as  ever. 

To  the  house  for  dinner,  after  which  some  one  brings 
forth  an  old  family  album.  It  is  just  like  all  other  family 
albums. 

"This  is  your  great-granduncle  and  that  is  your  great- 
grandmother.  This  is  Aunt  Lucy.  This  one  was  a  French 
general." 

Aubrey  says:  "You  know  we  have  quite  a  good  family 
on  your  father's  side."  There  are  pictures  of  uncles  who 
are  very  prosperous  cattle  ranchers  in  South  Africa.  Wonder 
why  I  don't  hear  from  my  prosp^erous  relations. 

This  is  the  first  time  that  I  am  aware  of  my  family  and 
I  am  now  convinced  that  we  are  true  aristocrats,  blue  blood 
of  the  first  water. 

Aubrey  has  children,  a  boy  of  twelve,  whom  I  have 
never  met  before.  A  fine  boy.  I  suggest  educating  him. 
We  talk  of  it  at  length  and  with  stress.     "Let's  keep  up 


FAREWELLS  TO  PARIS  AND  LONDON  141 

family  tradition.  He  may  be  a  member  of  Parliament  or 
perhaps  President.    He's  a  bright  boy." 

We  dig  up  all  the  family  and  discuss  them.  The  uncles  in 
Spain.    Why,  we  Chaplins  have  populated  the  earth. 

When  I  came  I  told  Aubrey  that  I  could  stay  only  two 
hours,  but  it  is  4  a.m.  and  we  are  still  talking.  As  we 
leave  Aubrey  walks  with  me  toward  the  Ritz. 

We  hail  a  Ford  truck  on  the  way  and  a  rather  dandified 
young  Johnny,  a  former  officer,  gives  us  a  lift. 

"Right  you  are.    Jump  on." 

A  new  element,  these  dandies  driving  trucks,  some  of  them 
graduates  of  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  of  good  families, 
most  of  them,  impecunious  aristocrats.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  such  families. 

This  chap  is  very  quiet  and  gentle.  He  talks  mostly 
of  his  truck  and  his  marketing,  which  he  thinks  is  quite  a 
game.  He  has  been  in  the  grocery  business  since  the  war 
and  has  never  made  so  much  money.  We  get  considerable 
of  his  story  as  we  jolt  along  in  the  truck. 

He  is  providing  groceries  for  all  his  friends  in  Bayswater, 
and  every  morning  at  four  o'clock  he  is  on  his  way  to  the 
market.    He  loves  the  truck.    It  is  so  simple  to  drive. 

"Half  a  mo."  He  stops  talking  and  pulls  up  for  gas  at  a 
pretty  little  white-tiled  gas  station.  The  station  is  all  Ht 
up,  though  it  is  but  5  a.m. 

"Good  morning.    Give  me  about  five  gal," 

"Right-o!" 

The  cheery  greeting  means  more  than  the  simple  words 
that  are  said. 

The  lad  recognizes  me  and  greets  me  frankly,  though 
formally.  It  seems  so  strange  to  me  to  hear  this  truck  driver 
go  along  conversing  in  the  easiest  possible  manner.  A  truck 
driver  who  enjoyed  truck  driving. 

He  spoke  of  films  for  just  a  bit  and  then  discreetly  stopped, 
thinking,  perhaps,  that  I  might  not  like  to  talk  about  them. 
And,  besides,  he  liked  to  talk  about  his  truck. 

He  told  us  how  wonderful  it  was  to  drive  along  in  the 


142  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

early  morning  with  only  the  company  of  dawn  and  the 
stars.  He  loved  the  silent  streets,  sleeping  London.  He 
was  enterprising,  full  of  hopes  and  ambitions.  Told  how 
he  bartered.    He  knew  how.    His  was  a  lovely  business. 

He  was  smoking  a  pipe  and  wore  a  Trilby  hat,  with  a 
sort  of  frock  coat,  and  his  neck  was  wrapped  in  a  scarf.  I 
figured  him  to  be  about  thirty  years  of  age. 

I  nudged  my  cousin.  Would  he  accept  anything?  We 
hardly  know  whether  or  not  to  offer  it,  though  he  is  going 
out  of  his  way  to  drive  me  to  the  Ritz. 

He  has  insisted  that  it  is  no  trouble,  that  he  can  cut 
through  to  Covent  Garden.  No  trouble.  I  tell  the  gas 
man  to  fill  it  up  and  I  insist  on  paying  for  the  gas. 

The  lad  protests,  but  I  insist. 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,  really.  But  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  have  you,"  he  says,  as  he  gets  back  in  his  seat. 

We  cut  through  to  Piccadilly  and  pull  up  at  the  Ritz 
in  a  Ford  truck.    Quite  an  arrival. 

The  lad  bids  us  good-by.  "Delighted  to  have  met  you. 
Hope  you  have  a  bully  time.  Too  bad  you  are  leaving. 
Bon  voyage.  Come  back  in  the  spring.  London  is  charming 
then.    Well,  I  must  be  off.    I'm  late.    Good  morning." 

We  talk  him  over  on  the  steps  as  he  drives  away.  He  is 
the  type  of  an  aristocrat  that  must  live.  He  is  made  of  the 
stuff  that  marks  the  true  aristocrat.  He  is  an  inspiration. 
He  talked  just  enough,  never  too  much.  The  intonation  of 
his  voice  and  his  sense  of  beauty  as  he  appreciated  the  dawn 
stamped  him  as  of  the  elite — the  real  elite,  not  the  Blue 
Book  variety. 

Loving  adventure,  virtuous,  doing  something  all  the  time, 
and  loving  the  doing.  What  an  example  he  is!  He  has 
two  stores.  This  is  his  first  truck.  He  loves  it.  He  is  the 
first  of  his  kind  that  I  have  met.  This  is  my  last  night  in 
England.  I  am  glad  that  it  brought  me  this  contact  with 
real  nobility. 


XV 

BON  VOYAGE 

I  AM  off  in  the  morning  for  Southampton,  miserable  and 
depressed.  Crowds — the  same  crowds  that  saw  me 
come — are  there.  But  they  seem  a  bit  more  desirable.  I 
am  leaving  them.  There  are  so  many  things  I  wish  I  had 
done.    It  is  pleasant  to  be  getting  this  applause  on  my  exit. 

I  do  not  doubt  its  sincerity  now.  It  is  just  as  fine  and  as 
boisterous  as  it  was  when  I  arrived.  They  were  glad  to 
see  me  come  and  are  sorry  I  am  going. 

I  feel  despondent  and  sad.  I  want  to  hug  all  of  them  to 
me.  There  is  something  so  wistful  about  London,  about 
their  kind,  gentle  appreciation.  They  smile  tenderly  as 
I  look  this  way,  that  way,  over  there — on  every  side  it  is 
the  same.    They  are  all  my  friends  and  I  am  leaving  them. 

Will  I  sign  this  ?  A  few  excited  ones  are  shoving  autograph 
books  at  me,  but  most  of  them  are  under  restraint,  almost  in 
repose.  They  feel  the  parting.  They  sense  it,  but  are  send- 
ing me  away  with  a  smile. 

My  car  is  full  of  friends  going  with  me  to  Southampton. 
They  mean  little  at  the  moment.  The  crowd  has  me.  Old, 
old  friends  turn  up,  friends  that  I  have  been  too  busy  to 
see.  Faithful  old  friends  who  are  content  just  to  get  a 
glimpse  before  I  leave. 

There's  Freddy  Whittaker,  an  old  music-hall  artist  with 

whom  I  once  played.     Just  acquaintances,  most  of  them, 

but  they  all  knew  me,  and  had  all  shared,  in  spirit,  my 

success.    All  of  them  are  at  the  station  and  all  of  them  imder- 

12 


144  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

stand.  They  know  that  my  Hfe  has  been  full  every  minute 
I  have  been  here.    There  had  been  so  much  to  do. 

They  knew  and  understood,  yet  they  had  come  determined 
just  to  see  me,  if  only  at  the  door  of  my  carriage.  I  feel 
very  sad  about  them. 

The  train  is  about  to  pull  out  and  everything  is  excite- 
ment. Everyone  seems  emotional  and  there  is  a  tense- 
ness in  the  very  atmosphere. 

"Love  to  Alf  and  Amy,"  many  of  them  whisper,  those 
who  know  my  manager  and  his  wife.  I  tell  them  that  I  am 
coming  back,  perhaps  next  summer.  There  is  applause. 
"Don't  forget,"  they  shout.    I  don't  think  I  could  forget. 

The  trip  to  Southampton  is  not  enjoyable.  There  is  a 
sadness  on  the  train.  A  sort  of  embarrassed  sentimentality 
among  my  friends.  Tom  Geraghty  is  along.  Tom  is  an 
old  American  and  he  is  all  choked  up  at  the  thought  of  my 
going  back  while  he  has  to  stay  on  in  England.  We  are  going 
back  to  his  land.    We  cannot  talk  much. 

We  go  to  the  boat.  Sonny  is  there  to  see  me  off.  Sonny, 
Hetty's  brother. 

There  is  luncheon  with  my  friends  and  there  are  crowds 
of  reporters.  I  can't  be  annoyed.  There  is  nothing  for 
me  to  say.  I  can't  even  think.  We  talk,  small  talk,  joke 
talk. 

Sonny  is  very  matter-of-fact.  I  look  at  him  and  wonder 
if  he  has  ever  known.  He  has  always  been  so  vague  with 
me.    Has  always  met  me  in  a  joking  way. 

He  leans  over  and  whispers,  "I  thought  you  might  like 
this."  It  is  a  package.  I  almost  know  without  asking  that 
it  is  a  picture  of  Hetty.  I  am  amazed.  He  understood  all 
the  time.  Was  always  alive  to  the  situation.  How  England 
covers  up  her  feelings ! 

Everybody  is  off  the  boat  but  the  passengers.  My  friends 
stand  on  the  dock  and  wave  to  me.  I  see  everything  in 
their  glowing  faces — loyalty,  love,  sadness,  a  few  tears. 
There  is  a  lump  in  my  throat.  I  smile  just  as  hard  as  I 
can  to  keep  them  from  seeing.    I  even  smile  at  the  reporters. 


BON  VOYAGE  145 

They're  darn  nice  fellows.  I  wish  I  knew  them  better. 
After  all,  it's  their  job  to  ask  questions  and  they  have 
been  merely  doing  their  job  with  me.  Just  doing  their 
jobs,  as  they  see  it.  That  spirit  would  make  the  world  if 
it  were  universal. 

England  never  looked  more  lovely.  Why  didn't  I  go  here? 
Why  didn't  I  do  this  and  that?  There  is  so  much  that  I 
missed.  I  must  come  back  again.  Will  they  be  glad  to  see 
me?  As  glad  as  I  am  to  see  them?  I  hope  so.  My  cheek 
is  damp.  I  turn  away  and  blot  out  the  sadness.  I  am  not 
going  to  look  back  again. 

A  sweet  little  girl  about  eight  years  of  age,  full  of  laughing 
childhood,  is  coming  toward  me  with  a  bubbling  voice. 
Her  very  look  commands  me  not  to  try  to  escape.  I  don't 
think  I  want  to  escape  from  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Chaplin,"  gurgled  the  little  girl.  "I've  been 
looking  for  you  all  over  the  boat.  Please  adopt  me  like  you 
did  Jackie  Coogan.  We  could  smash  windows  together  and 
have  lots  of  fun.    I  love  your  plays." 

She  takes  my  hand  and  looks  up  into  my  face.  "They 
are  so  clever  and  beautiful.  Won't  you  teach  me  like  you 
taught  him?  He's  so  much  like  you.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  be 
like  him." 

And  with  a  rapt  look  on  her  little  face  she  prattles  on, 
leaving  me  very  few  opportunities  to  get  in  a  word,  though 
I  prefer  to  listen  rather  than  talk. 

I  wave  good-by  to  my  friends  and  then  walk  along  with 
her,  going  up  and  looking  back  at  the  crowd  over  the 
rail. 

Reporters  are  here.  They  scent  something  interesting 
in  my  affair  with  the  little  girl.  I  answer  all  questions. 
Then  a  photographer.  We  are  photographed  together.  And 
the  movie  men  are  getting  action  pictures.  We  are  looking 
back  at  my  friends  on  shore. 

The  little  girl  asks:  "Are  they  all  actors  and  in  the 
movies?  Why  are  you  so  sad?  Don't  you  like  leaving 
England?     There  will  be  so  many  friends  in  America  to 


146  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

meet  you.  Why,  you  should  be  so  happy  because  you  have 
friends  all  over  the  world!" 

I  tell  her  that  it  is  just  the  parting — that  the  thought 
of  leaving  is  always  sad.  Life  is  always  "Good-by."  And 
here  I  feel  it  is  good-by  to  new  friends,  that  my  old  ones 
^are  in  America. 

We  walk  arotmd  the  deck  and  she  discusses  the  merits 
of  my  pictures. 

"Do  you  like  drama?"  I  ask. 

"No.  I  like  to  laugh,  but  I  love  to  make  people  cry 
myself.  It  must  be  nice  to  act  'cryie'  parts,  but  I  don't 
like  to  watch  them." 

"And  you  want  me  to  adopt  you?" 

"Only  in  the  pictures,  like  Jackie.  I  would  love  to  break 
windows." 

She  has  dark  hair  and  a  beautiful  profile  of  the  Spanish 
type,  with  a  delicately  formed  nose  and  a  Cupid's  bow  sort 
of  mouth.  Her  eyes  are  sensitive,  dark  and  shining,  dancing 
with  life  and  laughter.  As  we  talk  I  notice  as  she  gets 
serious  she  grows  tender  and  full  of  childish  love. 

"You  like  smashing  windows!  You  must  be  Spanish," 
I  tell  her. 

"Oh  no,  not  Spanish;  I'm  Jewish,"  she  answers. 

"That  accounts  for  your  genius." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  Jewish  people  are  clever?"  she  asks, 
eagerly. 

"Of  course.  All  great  geniuses  had  Jewish  blood  in  them. 
No,  I  am  not  Jewish,"  as  she  is  about  to  put  that  question, 
"but  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  somewhere  in  me.  I 
hope  so." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  think  them  clever.  You  must 
meet  my  mother.  She's  brilliant  and -an  elocutionist.  She 
recites  beautifully,  and  is  so  clever  at  anything.  And  I 
am  sure  you  would  like  my  father.  He  loves  me  so  much 
and  I  think  he  admires  me  some,  too." 

She  chatters  on  as  we  walk  around.  Then  suddenly: 
"You  look  tired.    Please  tell  me  and  I  will  run  away." 


BON  VOYAGE  147 

As  the  boat  is  pulling  out  her  mother  comes  toward  us 
and  the  child  introduces  us  with  perfect  formality  and  with- 
out any  embarrassment.    She  is  a  fine,  cultured  person. 

"Come  along,  dear,  we  must  go  down  to  the  second  class. 
We  cannot  stay  here." 

I  make  an  appointment  to  lunch  with  the  little  girl  on 
the  day  after  the  morrow,  and  am  already  looking  forward 
to  it. 

I  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  second  day  in  reading  books 
by  Frank  Harris,  Waldo  Frank,  Claude  McKay  and  Major 
Douglas's  Economic  Democracy. 

The  next  day  I  met  Miss  Taylor,  a  famous  moving- 
picture  actress  of  England,  and  Mr.  Hepworth,  who  is  a 
director  of  prominence  in  Great  Britain.  Miss  Taylor, 
though  sensitive,  shy,  and  retiring,  has  a  great  bit  of 
charm. 

They  are  making  their  first  trip  to  America,  and  we  soon 
become  good  friends.  We  discuss  the  characteristics  of 
the  American  people,  contrasting  their  youthful,  frank 
abruptness  with  the  quiet,  shy,  and  reserved  Britisher. 

I  find  myself  running  wild  as  I  tell  them  of  this  land. 
I  explain  train  hold-ups,  advertising  signs,  Broadway  lights, 
blatant  theaters,  ticket  speculators,  subways,  the  automat 
and  its  big  sister,  the  cafeteria.  It  has  a  great  effect  on  my 
friends  and  at  times  I  almost  detect  unbelief.  I  find  myself 
wanting  to  show  the  whole  thing  to  them  and  to  watch  their 
reactions. 

At  the  luncheon  next  day  the  little  girl  is  the  soul  of  the 
party.  We  discuss  everything  from  art  to  ambitions.  At 
one  moment  she  is  full  of  musical  laughter,  and  the  next 
she  is  excitedly  discussing  some  happening  aboard  ship. 
Her  stories  are  always  interesting.  How  do  children  see  so 
much  more  than  grown-ups? 

She  has  a  great  time.  I  must  visit  her  father;  he  is  so 
much  like  me.  He  has  the  same  temperament,  and  is  such 
a  great  daddy.  He  is  so  good  to  her.  And  she  rattles  on 
without  stopping. 


148  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

Then  again  she  thinks  I  may  be  tired.  "Sit  back  now." 
And  she  puts  a  pillow  behind  my  head  and  bids  me  rest. 

These  moments  with  her  make  days  aboard  pass  quickly 
and  pleasantly. 

Carl  Robinson  and  I  are  strolling  around  the  top  deck 
the  next  day  in  an  effort  to  get  away  from  everyone,  and  I 
notice  some  one  looking  up  at  a  wire  running  between  the 
funnels  of  the  ship.  Perched  on  the  wire  is  a  little  bird,  and 
I  am  wondering  how  it  got  there  and  if  it  had  been  there 
since  we  left  England. 

The  other  watcher  notices  us.  He  turns  and  smiles. 
"The  little  bird  must  think  this  is  the  promised  land." 

I  knew  at  once  that  he  was  somebody.  Those  thoughts 
belong  only  to  poets.  Later  in  the  evening  he  joins  us  at 
my  invitation  and  I  learn  he  is  Easthope  Martin,  the  com- 
poser and  pianist.  He  had  been  through  the  war  and  it 
had  left  its  stamp  on  this  fine,  sensitive  soul.  He  had  been 
gassed.    I  could  not  imagine  such  a  man  in  the  trenches. 

He  is  very  frail  of  body,  and  as  he  talks  I  always 
imagine  his  big  soul  at  the  bursting  point  with  a  pent-up 
yearning. 

There  is  the  inevitable  concert  on  the  last  night  of  the 
voyage.  We  are  off  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  fog.  Fog  horns  must  be  kept  blowing  at  intervals, 
hence  the  effect  on  the  concert,  particularly  the  vocal  part, 
is  obvious. 

We  land  at  seven  in  the  morning  of  a  very  windy  day, 
and  it  is  eleven  before  we  can  get  away.  Reporters  and 
camera  men  fill  the  air  during  all  that  time,  and  I  am  rather 
glad,  because  it  shows  Miss  Taylor  and  Mr.  Hepworth  a 
glimpse  of  what  America  is  like.  We  arrange  to  meet  that 
night  at  Sam  Goldwyn's  for  dinner. 

Good-bys  here  are  rather  joyous,  because  we  are  all  getting 
off  in  the  same  land  and  there  will  be  an  opportunity  to  see 
one  another  again. 

My  little  friend  comes  to  me  excitedly  and  gives  me  a 
present — a  silver  stamp  box.    'T  hope  that  when  you  write 


SCENES  FROM    "sunn YSIDE,"    ONE   OF   MY   FAVORITE   PHOTO   FLAYS 


BON  VOYAGE  149 

your  first  letter  you  take  a  stamp  from  here  and  mail  it  to 
me.    Good-by." 

She  shakes  hands.  We  are  real  lovers  and  must  be  careful. 
She  tells  me  not  to  overwork.  "Don't  forget  to  come 
and  see  us;  you  must  meet  daddy.    Good-by,  Charlie." 

She  curtsies  and  is  gone.  I  go  to  my  cabin  to  wait  until 
we  can  land.    There  is  a  tiny  knock.    She  comes  in. 

"Charlie,  I  couldn't  kiss  you  out  there  in  front  of  all  those 
people.  Good-by,  dear.  Take  care  of  yourself."  This  is 
real  love.    She  kisses  my  cheek  and  then  runs  out  on  deck. 

Easthope  Martin  is  with  us  that  night  at  Goldwyn's 
party.  He  plays  one  of  his  own  compositions  and  holds  us 
spellbound.  He  is  very  grateful  for  our  sincere  applause 
and  quite  retiring  and  unassuming,  though  he  is  the  hit  of 
the  evening. 

Following  the  dinner  I  carried  the  English  movie  folk 
on  a  sight-seeing  trip,  enjoying  their  amazement  at  the 
wonders  of  a  New  York  night. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  I  asked  them. 

"Thrilling,"  says  Hepworth.  "I  like  it.  There  is  some- 
thing electrical  in  the  air.  It  is  a  driving  force.  You  must 
do  things." 

We  go  to  a  cafe,  where  the  elite  of  New  York  are  gathered, 
and  dance  until  midnight.  I  bid  them  good-by,  hoping  to 
meet  them  later  when  they  come  to  Los  Angeles. 

I  dine  at  Max  Eastman's  the  next  night  and  meet  McKay, 
the  negro  poet.  He  is  quite  handsome,  a  full-blooded 
Jamaican  negro  not  more  than  twenty -five  years  of  age. 
I  can  readily  see  why  he  has  been  termed  an  African  prince. 
He  has  just  that  manner. 

I  have  read  a  number  of  his  poems.  He  is  a  true  aristocrat 
with  the  sensitiveness  of  a  poet  and  the  humor  of  a  philoso- 
pher, and  quite  shy.  In  fact,  he  is  rather  supersensitive, 
but  with  a  dignity  and  manner  that  seem  to  hold  him  aloof. 

There  are  many  other  friends  there,  and  we  discuss  Max's 
new  book  on  humor.  There  is  a  controversy  whether  to 
call  it  "Sense  of  Humor"  or  "Psychology  of  Humor."    We 


i50  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

talk  about  my  trip.  Claude  McKay  asks  if  I  met  Shaw. 
"Too  bad,"  he  says.  "You  would  like  him  and  he  would 
have  enjoyed  you." 

I  am  interested  in  Claude.  "How  do  you  write  your 
poetry?  Can  you  make  yourself  write?  Do  you  pre- 
pare?" I  try  to  discuss  his  race.  "What  is  their  future? 
Do  they—" 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders.  I  realize  he  is  a  poet,  an 
aristocrat. 

I  dine  the  next  evening  with  Waldo  Frank  and  Mar- 
guerite Naumberg  and  we  discuss  her  new  system.  She  has 
a  school  that  develops  children  along  the  lines  of  personality. 
It  is  a  study  in  individuality.  She  is  struggling  alone, 
but  is  getting  wonderful  results.  We  talk  far  into  the  morn- 
ing on  everything,  including  the  fourth  dimension. 

Next  day  Frank  Harris  calls  and  we  decide  to  take  a 
trip  to  Sing  Sing  together.  Frank  is  very  sad  and  wistful. 
He  is  anxious  to  get  away  from  New  York  and  devote  time 
to  his  autobiography  before  it  is  too  late.  He  has  so  much 
to  say  that  he  wants  to  write  it  while  it  is  keen. 

I  try  to  tell  him  that  consciousness  of  age  is  a  sign  of  keen- 
ness.   That  age  doesn't  bother  the  mind. 

We  discuss  George  Meredith  and  a  wonderful  book  he 
had  written.  And  then  in  his  age  Meredith  had  rewritten 
it.  He  said  it  was  so  much  better  rewritten,  but  he  had 
taken  from  it  all  the  red  blood.  It  was  old,  withered  like 
himself.  You  can't  see  things  as  they  were.  Meredith  had 
become  old.  Harris  says  he  doesn't  want  the  same  experi- 
ence. 

All  this  on  the  way  to  Sing  Sing.  Frank  is  a  wonderful 
conversationalist.  Like  his  friend  Oscar  Wilde.  That  same 
charm  and  brilliancy  of  wit,  ever  ready  for  argument. 
What  a  fund  of  knowledge  he  has.  What  a  biography  his 
should  be.  If  it  is  just  half  as  good  as  Wilde's,  it  will  be 
sufficient. 

Sing  Sing.  The  big,  gray  stone  buildings  seem  to  me  like 
an  outcry  against  civilization.     This  huge  gray  monster 


BON  VOYAGE  151 

with  its  thousand  staring  eyes.  We  are  in  the  visiting 
room.  Young  men  in  gray  shirts.  Thank  God,  the  hideous 
stripes  are  gone.  This  is  progress,  humanity.  It  is  not 
so  stark. 

There  is  a  mite  of  a  baby  holding  her  daddy's  hand  and 
playing  with  his  hair  as  he  talks  with  her  mamma,  his  wife. 
Another  prisoner  holding  two  withered  hands  of  an  old 
lady.  Mother  was  written  all  over  her,  though  neither 
said  a  word.    I  felt  brutal  at  witnessing  their  emotion. 

All  of  them  old.  Children,  widows,  mothers — youth 
crossed  out  of  faces  by  lines  of  suffering  and  life's  penalties. 
Tragedy  and  sadness,  and  always  it  is  in  the  faces  of  the 
women  that  the  suffering  is  more  plainly  written.  The  men 
suffer  in  body — the  women  in  soul. 

The  men  look  resigned.  Their  spirit  is  gone.  What  is 
it  that  happens  behind  these  gray  walls  that  kills  so  com- 
pletely ? 

The  devotion  of  the  prisoners  is  almost  childish  in  its 
eagerness  as  they  sit  with  their  children,  talking  with  their 
wives,  here  and  there  a  lover  with  his  sweetheart — all  of 
them  have  written  a  compelling  story  in  the  book  of  life. 
But  love  is  in  this  room,  love  unashamed.  Why  aie  sinners 
always  loved  ?  Why  do  sinners  make  such  wonderful  lovers  ? 
Perhaps  it  is  compensation,  as  they  call  it.  Love  is  paged 
by  every  eye  here. 

Children  are  playing  around  the  floor.  Their  laughter 
is  like  a  benediction.  This  is  another  improvement,  this 
room.  There  are  no  longer  bars  to  separate  loved  ones. 
Human  nature  improves,  but  the  tragedy  remains  just  as 
dramatic. 

The  cells  where  they  sleep  are  old  fashioned,  built  by  a 
monster  or  a  maniac.  No  architect  could  do  such  a  thing 
for  human  beings.  They  are  built  of  hate,  ignorance,  and 
stupidity.  I  understand  they  are  building  a  new  prison, 
more  sane,  with  far  more  understanding  of  human  needs. 
Until  then  these  poor  wretches  must  endure  these  awful 
cells.    I'd  go  mad  there. 


152  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

I  notice  quite  a  bit  of  freedom.  A  number  of  prisoners 
are  strolling  around  the  grounds  while  others  are  at  work. 
The  honor  system  is  a  great  thing,  gives  a  man  a  chance  to 
hold  self-respect. 

They  have  heard  that  I  am  coming,  and  most  of  them 
seem  to  know  me.  I  am  embarrassed.  What  can  I  say? 
yow  can  I  approach  them?  I  wave  my  hand  merely. 
"Hello,  folks!" 

I  decide  to  discard  conversation.  Be  myself.  Be 
comic.  Cut  up.  I  twist  my  cane  and  juggle  my  hat.  I 
kick  up  my  leg  in  back.  I  am  on  comic  ground.  That's 
the  thing. 

No  sentiment,  no  slopping  over,  no  morals — they  are  fed 
up  with  that.  What  is  there  in  common  between  us?  Our 
viewpoints  are  entirely  different.    They're  in — I'm  out. 

They  show  me  a  cup  presented  by  Sir  Thomas  Lipton, 
inscribed,  "We  have  all  made  mistakes." 

"How  do  we  know  but  what  some  of  you  haven't?"  I 
ask,  humorously.     It  makes  a  hit.    They  want  me  to  talk. 

"Brother  criminals  and  fellow  sinners:  Christ  said,  'Let 
him  who  is  without  sin  cast  the  first  stone.'  I  cannot  cast 
the  stone,  though  I  have  compromised  and  thrown  many  a 
pie.  But  I  cannot  cast  the  first  stone."  Some  got  it.  Others 
never  will. 

We  must  be  sensible.  I  am  not  a  hero  worshiper  of 
criminals  and  bad  men.  Society  must  be  protected.  We 
are  greater  in  number  than  the  criminals  and  have  the  upper 
hand.  We  must  keep  it.  But  we  can  at  least  treat  them 
intelligently,  for,  after  all,  crime  is  the  outcome  of  society. 

The  doctor  tells  me  that  but  a  few  of  them  are  criminals 
from  heredity,  that  the  majority  had  been  forced  into  crime 
by  circumstances  or  had  committed  it  in  passion.  I  notice  a 
lot  of  evil-looking  men,  but  also  some  splendid  ones.  I 
earnestly  believe  that  society  can  protect  itself  intelligently, 
humanly.  I  would  abolish  prisons.  Call  them  hospitals 
and  treat  the  prisoners  as  patients. 

It  is  a  problem  that  I  make  no  pretense  of  solving. 


BON  VOYAGE  153 

The  death  house.  It  is  hideous.  A  plain,  bare  room, 
rather  large  and  with  a  white  door,  not  green,  as  I  have  been 
told.  The  chair — a  plain  wooden  armchair  and  a  single 
wire  coming  down  over  it.  This  is  an  instrument  to  snuff 
out  life.  It  is  too  simple.  It  is  not  even  dramatic.  Just 
cold  blooded  and  matter  of  fact. 

Some  one  is  telling  me  how  they  watch  the  prisoner 
after  he  is  strapped  in  the  chair.  Good  God!  How  can 
they  calmly  plan  with  such  exactness  ?  And  they  have  killed 
as  many  as  seven  in  one  day.    I  must  get  out. 

Two  men  were  walking  up  and  down  in  a  bare  yard, 
one  a  short  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  walking  briskly, 
and  at  his  side  a  warden.  The  keeper  announces,  shortly, 
"The  next  for  the  chair." 

How  awful !  Looking  straight  in  front  of  him  and  coming 
toward  us,  I  saw  his  face.  Tragic  and  appalling.  I  will 
see  it  for  a  long  time. 

We  visit  the  industries.  There  is  something  ironical 
about  their  location  with  the  mountains  for  a  background, 
but  the  effect  is  good,  they  can  get  a  sense  of  freedom.  A 
good  system  here,  with  the  wardens  tolerant.  They  seem 
to  understand.    I  whisper  to  one. 

"Is  Jim  Larkin  here?"  He  is  in  the  boot  department, 
and  we  go  to  see  him  for  a  moment.  There  is  a  rule  against 
it,  but  on  this  occasion  the  rule  is  waived. 

Larkin  struts  up.  Large,  about  six  feet  two  inches,  a 
fine,  strapping  Irishman.    Introduced,  he  talks  timidly. 

He  can't  stay,  mustn't  leave  his  work.  Is  happy.  Only 
worried  about  his  wife  and  children  in  Ireland.  Anxious 
about  them,  otherwise  fit. 

There  are  four  more  years  for  him.  He  seems  deserted 
even  by  his  party,  though  there  is  an  effort  being  made  to 
have  his  sentence  repealed.  After  all,  he  is  no  ordinary 
criminal.    Just  a  political  one. 

He  asks  about  my  reception  in  England.  "Glad  to  meet 
you,  but  I  must  get  back." 

Frank  tells  him  he  will  help  to  get  his  release.    He  smiles, 


154  MY  TRIP  ABROAD 

grips  Frank's  hand  hard.  "Thanks."  Harris  tells  me  he 
is  a  cultured  man  and  a  fine  writer. 

But  the  prison  marked  him.  The  buoyancy  and  spirit 
that  must  have  gone  with  those  Irish  eyes  are  no  more. 
Those  same  eyes  are  now  wistful,  where  they  once  were  gay. 

He  hasn't  been  forgotten.  Our  visit  has  helped.  There 
may  be  a  bit  of  hope  left  to  him. 

We  go  to  the  solitary-confinement  cell,  where  trouble 
makers  are  kept. 

"This  young  man  tried  to  escape,  got  out  on  the  roof. 
We  went  after  him,"  says  the  warden. 

"Yes,  it  was  quite  a  movie  stunt,"  said  the  youngster. 
He  is  embarrassed.    We  try  to  relieve  it. 

"Whatever  he's  done,  he's  darn  handsome,"  I  tell  the 
warden.  It  helps.  "Better  luck  next  time,"  I  tell  him.  He 
laughs.    "Thanks.    Pleased  to  meet  you,  Charlie." 

He  is  just  nineteen,  handsome  and  healthy.  What  a  pity. 
The  greatest  tragedy  of  all.  He  is  a  forger,  here  with  mur- 
derers. 

We  leave  and  I  look  back  at  the  prison  just  once.  Why  are 
prisons  and  graveyards  built  in  such  beautiful  places? 

Next  day  everything  is  bustling,  getting  ready  for  the  trip 
back  to  Los  Angeles.  I  sneak  out  in  the  excitement  and  go 
to  a  matinee  to  see  Marie  Doro  in  "Lilies  of  the  Field," 
and  that  night  to  "The  Hero,"  a  splendid  play.  A  young 
actor,  Robert  Ames,  I  believe,  gives  the  finest  performance 
I  have  ever  seen  in  America. 

We  are  on  the  way.  I  am  rushing  back  with  the  swiftness 
of  the  Twentieth  Century  Limited.  There  is  a  wire  from 
my  studio  manager.  "When  will  I  be  back  for  work?" 
I  wire  him  that  I  am  rushing  and  anxious  to  get  there. 
There  is  a  brief  stop  in  Chicago  and  then  we  are  on  again. 

And  as  the  train  rushes  me  back  I  am  living  again  this 
vacation  of  mine.  Its  every  moment  now  seems  wonderful. 
The  petty  annoyances  were  but  seasoning.  I  even  begin 
to  like  reporters.  They  are  regular  fellows,  intent  on  their 
job. 


BON  VOYAGE  155 

And  going  over  it  all,  it  has  been  so  worth  while  and  the 
job  ahead  of  me  looks  worth  while.  If  I  can  bring  smiles 
to  the  tired  eyes  in  Kennington  and  Whitechapel,  if  I  have 
absorbed  and  understood  the  virtues  and  problems  of  those 
simpler  people  I  have  met,  and  if  I  have  gathered  the  least 
bit  of  inspiration  from  those  greater  personages  who  were 
kind  to  me,  then  this  has  been  a  wonderful  trip,  and  some- 
how I  am  eager  to  get  back  to  work  and  begin  paying  for  it. 

I  notice  a  newspaper  headline  as  I  write.  It  tells  of  the 
Conference  for  Disarmament.  Is  it  prophetic?  Does  it 
mean  that  war  will  never  stride  through  the  world  again? 
Is  it  a  gleam  of  intelligence  coming  into  the  world  ? 

We  are  arriving  at  Ogden,  Utah,  as  I  write.  There  is  a 
telegram  asking  me  to  dine  with  Clare  Sheridan  on  my 
arrival  in  Los  Angeles.  The  prospect  is  most  alluring.  And 
that  wire,  with  several  others,  convinces  me  that  I  am  getting 
home. 

I  turn  again  to  the  newspaper.  My  holiday  is  over.  I 
reflect  on  disarmament.  I  wonder  what  will  be  the  answer? 
I  hope  and  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  will  be  for  good. 
Was  it  Tennyson  who  wrote : 

When  shall  all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  peace 
Shine  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  che  lare, 
And  like  a  layer  of  beams  athwart  the  sea? 

What  a  beautiful  thought.     Can  those  who  go  to  Wash- 
ington make  it  more  than  a  thought  ? 
The  conductor  is  calling: 
"Los  Angeles." 
"By." 


THE    END 


New  Fiction  by   Well-Known   Writers 


THE  EMPTY  SACK  By  Basil  King 

How  severely  should  Society  punish  a  man  when 
Society  itself  has  really  been  responsible  for  his  crimes? 
— is  one  question  posed  in  this  new,  powerful  novel  by 
the  author  of  The  Thread  of  Flame.  It  is  a  story  of 
dynamic  power  and  broad  human  appeal,  in  a  rather 
different  vein  from  his  earlier  work.  It  attempts  to 
weigh  modern  business  tactics  by  their  effect  on  the 
individual  worker. 

INEZ  AND  TRILBY   MAY  By  Sewell  Ford 

With  this  story  Mr.  Ford  begins  a  new  series  about 
two  girl  characters — pretty,  funny  and  irresistably 
human,  who  come  to  New  York  in  search  of  romance. 
For  over  ten  years  his  stories  of  Torchy  and  Shorty 
McCabe  have  amused  millions  of  American  readers. 
His  two  new  girl  characters  are  every  bit  as  fascinating 
as  Torchy  and  Shorty  were. 

BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

By  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie 
The  story  of  an  underdog  by  the  author  of  The  Blood- 
Red  Dawn.  How  Fred  Starrett  becomes  the  easy  victim 
of  a  big  business  combine;  how  he  survives  the  horrors 
of  a  San  Francisco  prison  and  insane  asylum;  and  how, 
finally,  out  of  a  courageous  act  com  it  ted  in  a  moment 
of  desperation,  his  manhood  is  born — ^makes  this  an 
absorbing  story  and  a  powerful  psychological  study. 

WHEN  EGYPT  WENT  BROKE  By  Holman  Day 
Here  you  have  something  really  novel  in  fiction. 
It  combines  humor  and  thrills,  and  its  breezy  plot 
is  "something  new  under  the  sun."  The  climax  of  old 
miser  Britt's  scheme  to  secure  a  pretty,  young  wife  is 
probably  unique  in  literary,  legal  and  real  estate  circles. 
Don't  miss  the  good  laughs  there  are  for  you  in  the 
intensely  humorous  "crook"  incidents — and  others — in 
this  book. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
Franklin  Square  New  York 


Life  Stories  of  Famous  Americans 


THE   LIFE   OF   ELIZABETH    CADY   STANTON 
By  Harkiot  Stanton  Blatch  and  Theodore  Stanton 

This  fascinating  life  story  is  told  in  a  wholly  original 
way — as  a  combination  of  autobiography,  letters  and 
a  diary.  Mrs.  Stanton  who  called  the  first  Woman's 
Rights  convention,  discusses  the  progress  of  the  cause^ 
divorce,  woman's  rights  in  marriage,  and  a  fascinating 
variety  of  subjects  of  first  importance  to  the  women 
— and  men — of  to-day. 

WHY  LINCOLN  LAUGHED 

By  Russell  H.  Conwell 

A  book  in  itself  a  delightful  entertainment  and,  in 
addition,  a  key  to  other  countless  hours  of  relaxation. 
It  is  Dr.  Conwell's  refreshing  account  of  his  meetings 
with  Lincoln,  and  of  the  hours  of  delightful  conversa- 
tion during  which  this  great  and  much  harassed  Presi- 
dent exemplified  his  belief  in  the  power  and  usefulness 
of  laughter. 

IN  ONE  MAN'S  LIFE 

By  Albert  Bigelow  Paine 

This  life  story  of  Theodore  N.  Vail,  the  curiously 
modest  man  who  by  his  faith  in  the  telephone  and 
telegraph  built  up  one  of  the  greatest  institutions  in  the 
world  and  "made  neighbors  of  a  hundred  million 
people,"  reads  like  romance.  Mr.  Paine  was  personally 
associated  with  Mr.  Vail,  as  with  Mark  Twain,  during 
his  latter  years;  and  he  has  preserved  to  us  the  intimate 
human  aspect  as  well  as  the  story  of  achievement  of  this 
other  great  American. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
Franklin  Square  New  York 


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Los  Angeles 

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